


Borderlines - Part the Second

by vshendria



Category: The Faculty (1998)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-11
Updated: 2011-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 12:06:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 428,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vshendria/pseuds/vshendria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Continuing the epic saga of Casey, Zeke, Sasha and everyone else</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Darkness could be restful, yes, but right now it was mostly just dark.

Okay, perhaps not so much dark as dim. It was meant to soothe him and help him fantasize about vegging out in some empty, windy field — cue the recording of chirping, squeaking crickets and beetles and snakes and bunnies — but there was still this essential problem of eleven strangers being in the dim room along with him. Six to the wall including himself, and six to the window. Presumably, eleven pairs of eyes were closed in semi-meditation, while his own kept opening despite the fact that what he could view was limited to a blank wall. Unless he sat up, and he would rather not call attention to himself so he just reposed there with a soft pillow under his head and a blanket pulled up to his chest, while a slightly nasal male voice broadcast its best approximation of a soothing drone: "You are now completely relaxed..."

Headline: Casey Connor is not relaxed. His hands were balled and constricted, his arms pressed down along the sides of his body like bone sticks while his breathing straggled in and out of him in truncated measures. His jaw was so tight that it hurt, and he could feel the blood pulsing in his temples at a steady throb.

The voice continued, "I want you to visualize yourself lying in the midst of endless golden fields. There are no cars around, no buildings or offices or machines beeping... no deadlines or demands of any kind. The sun is soft on your face and the only sound you hear is the wind. It is a warm, gentle wind that stirs the grasses around you and massages your skin. Every muscle in your body is relaxed now, from the tips of your toes to the crown of your head. You are entering deeper and deeper into a state of relaxation... ."

Casey Connor is not fucking relaxed!

He understood lesson number one of the Powell Relaxation Clinic, oh yes, he understood it very well: If he was jittery, high-strung, severely un-relaxed, hypervigilant and constantly tired, it was because he was doing it to himself. His hands were often shut into fists when he was lying at rest. His legs were always ready for running and being chased, and all the muscles of his head and neck had become a collection of thinned cords and dried-out string stretched to their absolute limit. His muscles were trained through the usage of nineteen years into a state of perpetual tension that no amount of practise seemed able to alleviate.

Breathe, Casey... It was the theme of this whole month. It was always about the breathing — but for something that was supposed to come naturally, breathing was damned hard work. He'd never appreciated the discipline that was needed, discipline that he just didn't have. Three days a week times four weeks he had come here, and he was making little progress. So far this afternoon his tummy hadn't inflated, his ribs hadn't expanded, he didn't feel the air rushing through his nostrils, and he sure as fuck didn't contemplate any gentle breezes or waving grasses. None of it. He sucked the hind tit at this.

So, then. He was stuck in this place for thirty minutes... minus fifteen that he had already been laying here... well, he hoped it was fifteen, it was so difficult to tell when you were trapped in a dark place and supposed to keep your eyes closed the whole time, your attention focussed internally, why not just go have a nap in the middle of Western Avenue no thank you very much he wouldn't be doing that either but he could attempt to get some air into his lungs. His poor, starved cells would thank him.

In. Pop goes the diaphragm, up goes the belly. Out. In goes the abdominal muscles... tighten those, blow that air all the way out.

In.

"You are...

Out.

"... completely relaxed..."

I am not... relaxed... I am not... relaxed.

It wasn't the fault of the clinic people. Each and every one of them was a true believer because each and every one of them had seen hundreds of people benefit from their program. They couldn't be blamed. As far as they knew, the recipe produced a healthy state of relaxation: Put twelve people on mats in a darkened room, play soothing music, and provide guidance from trained professionals. Mix and bake. It had turned out beautifully many times over and it should have worked for Casey too.

In.

"And as you the oxygen fills your lungs..."

Out.

"... you feel the last little bits of tension leaving your body..."

Typically, Casey would be dropped off at the clinic early so he could get the bed nearest the door, but today the Mustang had gotten stuck behind a slow bus in unusually heavy traffic and those lost minutes were never recovered. Sasha was edgy today too because he had an especially hectic night coming up at Sojourn with a large table of high- powered executive types; he had been muttering curses under his breath the whole time he drove, talking bitterly to the other drivers..."Oh, yeah, nice... nice driving there... good... how considerate of you not to insult my intelligence by signalling... thank you so much, darling..." They didn't get to the clinic until five minutes before the relaxation started, so Casey didn't get his pick of beds and now he was buried inside that room, the exit was at least fifteen feet away and he was flat on his back here.

Yeah, he did know some of the faces by now, of those who generally came to the same sessions as he did. There was Bitter-Faced Lady and Extra-Loud Guy, and a whole bunch of others who never approached him and he didn't approach. All he knew about his group leader was he was named Rick or Ron, and he was a man with a voice that always came off slightly forced, slightly unlike itself... like he was trying hard to be hypnotic but wasn't quite getting there.

Rick-Ron was also big fan of the waving grasses, which didn't exactly help. There were other types of visualization he could have used; Casey knew that because once, early on, there had been a woman who asked them to put themselves on a raft floating on a tropical sea. In his mind he had slipped off the raft right into the water, no breathing required and he sank down into a warm, liquid deep of blue-green being forgotten and forgetting... relaxation was actually achievable that day. He was looking forward to encountering that woman at his next session, but she disappeared after that.

Rick-Ron was walking up and down the aisle between the beds while he recited, "All the dregs of tension in every part of you are gone..."

Fuck.

"... the residual tension even in your toes and in the space between your eyes..."

You.

"... in your ankles..."

Fuck.

"... your kneecaps..."

You.

The real problem with Rick-Ron was that he always made a point of walking around as he talked and touching everyone at least once per session. He did it, apparently, because he was a trained physiotherapist and he judged it helpful to adjust the position of a person's head and neck, to make sure it was properly lengthened and stretched. Casey could appreciate that there was a rationale but his neurosis was immune to such considerations. The first — and only — time that Rick-Ron tried it with him, Casey had screamed and thrown himself off the bed, irrevocably ending the possibility of relaxation for everyone in the clinic on that particular day. Now all the leaders including Rick-Ron were aware that they were not to touch Casey but he was still constantly bracing himself for the possibility that they might forget or disregard it. If you were an alien entity bent on infecting and infiltrating as many people as you could, you might very well disregard the No- Touching-Casey-Connor Rule.

Anyway, there was nothing relaxing about wheat fields. Far better to be drifting in heavy fluid, floating slowly deeper, gradually losing the distinction between self and everything... that was relaxation, that and being at home with Zeke... especially when Zeke was inside Casey, hammering his body, dissolving all those sticky, messy I's and me's. It was yet another form of genius that Zeke possessed, it was a gift that Zeke had been bestowing quite willingly of late. In fact, over the past month he had been lavish with it, and thank fucking god because it was the only thing that constrained a great, glacial terror that would send chills of dread through Casey at any given moment. Once Zeke fell back upon being two selves as opposed to one, Casey would have to resume wondering when or how Zeke would change on him. Today, this week, this month Zeke was forceful, sometimes frantic, sometimes exquisitely gentle... yet he could withdraw, he could backtrack and decide that what was happening between them was not a good thing after all. He could give up. He could lose interest. He could leave...

"Thank you, everyone," came Rick-Ron's voice, a welcome intrusion this time. "Go and have a relaxing day."

Casey opened his eyes and saw that the lights had come up halfway. He quickly threw off his blanket and got to his feet, moving to exit the relaxation room far in advance of the others, who were stirring slowly, taking their time getting moving. Between the relaxation room and the lobby were heavy, opaque double doors with push levers, just like the doors in a school gymnasium. He threw his weight against them, blinking at the sudden light when he entered the reception and waiting area. It was an eye-tearing shock, confronting sunshine gleaming on the creamy walls, bouncing off the pastel furniture and carpets. There were a number of people sitting there awaiting the next session, and every single head lifted at Casey's abrupt exit.

He put his own head down and walked through them. The receptionist smiled at him and nodded. The gesture was a bit too knowing for his comfort, but then it was likely that she recognized everyone who came in here after a few weeks.

The first time that he came to the clinic, Sasha had been with him; Sasha had sat in the waiting area and read the testimonials while Casey got his orientation. There were binders full of them, with photos and lavish expressions of gratitude. It seemed that this relaxation stuff had cured everything from headaches to cancer, including some severe cases of anxiety. Sasha had found those binders pretty uplifting, and he made a point of escorting Casey to and from the building those initial weeks, patiently overcoming Casey's reluctance each time. After that they had developed a routine where Sasha drove him to the clinic in Zeke's car on relaxation days, dropping him off before heading to work. That way, Sasha didn't have to fret about the possibility of Casey not going if left to make his own choices.

And Casey would walk home after each session. It got him a solid forty-five- minute walk on Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday, and that, when combined with forty minutes of getting to and from his therapist's office on Monday and Thursday, was quite ample exercise for him. He was exhausted a lot of the time, but at least it was not August's or even September's brand of exhaustion. This was mostly a bone-deep, just-put-in-a- really-hard-day's-work kind of tiredness. Zeke was always having to stop him nodding off too early in the evening. Otherwise, he would wake up in the middle of the night, be unable to fall back to sleep, and then spend the next day roaming around like a burnt-out zombie. Apparently, he could no longer sleep sixteen hours at a stretch, which had to be some sort of improvement.

Dr. Yves would probably say that he walked harder and faster than he needed to, and that contributed to his fatigue. He would admit to it, but he didn't feel that he could afford to reduce his pace either. He couldn't get home fast enough, actually. Even after so many to's and fro's, the moment he hit the sidewalk his limbs would be quivering, his stomach would tangle with apprehension, and he would be almost running by the time he had traversed a single block. If Coach Willis could have seen how he wove between the obstacles, changing direction on a dime, dodging and ducking — all in a dire effort to avoid touching a single person — he might have begged Casey to be on his team. Casey could even tackle now, after a fashion; he had become used to running into people because there were just too many of them and their plays were too unpredictable to evade entirely. When that happened he would have to face a scowl or an exclamation, even the occasional angry complaint. Mostly people muttered "sorry" and kept on their own path, but frequently with a perplexed expression at the sight of this person who collided with them at full speed, barely stopping, and visibly hysterical. Sometimes, just to put the finishing touches on the portrait, he would be muttering to himself too, it would be okayokayokay... I'm okay... okayokayokay... but not to be believed completely, just enough to get home.

When Casey did finally get through his front door he would usually run straight to his bedroom and curl up on the bed, covering himself with his quilt and staying there until his panting and shaking subsided. Sometimes it didn't subside and he had to take a Xanax. Weirdly, those were his best nights; he would sleep a few hours, waking up long enough to eat and hang out with Zeke for a while and then he'd be asleep again and know nothing until morning when he would wake up with the temporary suspicion that everything was wonderful.

A lot of days, the temptation to take a Xanax was difficult to resist. He carried a little tin with him at all times with an emergency supply of the pills. It was reassuring just to know they were there if he needed them. It helped him get through those walks, not that he ever stopped believing that there was danger for him out there. With Xanax in his system, he didn't have to be frightened — temporarily, he didn't care enough. For a little while, he didn't have to be vigilant.

He did understand why he was doing all of this. Over time, he was expected to learn that there was nothing much to be afraid of, a valid theory if there wasn't actually anything to be afraid of, but there was — both outside and inside, there was the kicker. If he wasn't actually safe anywhere, then he really shouldn't make a fuss about going out of the apartment or not going out of the apartment. Isolating himself at home with only Zeke and Sasha for company wouldn't save him. Dr. Yves had made this point to him several times already, as if somehow he didn't already know that he was completely irrational, as if the moment she confronted him with his crazy convolutions he would be able to untwist himself just like that.

Thinking about the ordeal on foot that was to come, Casey found a reasonably secure corner near the reception area and pulled out his cellphone. Zeke had bought it for him so he could check in after his appointments, sometimes before Zeke's classes, sometimes after, depending on the day. It was all tightly scheduled so that he would know where Zeke was at all times.

He punched one on the speed dial.

"Hi," said Zeke's voice. "You're done?"

"Yeah."

"Gonna start walking?"

"Yeah," Casey sighed.

As always, Zeke fortified him, chanting: "You'll be fine. You'll survive it."

It was the same words, the same ritual reassurances. Casey's established refrain was: "I'll be okay."

"See you in a bit, then."

It was not entirely blatant, but Casey could detect an impatience, a coldness in the voice at the other end. "What's wrong?" he asked, his heart accelerating despite knowing that there were many possible explanations that didn't have to agitate him.

"Nothing."

"You sure?"

"I got my paper back."

"Oh... and?"

"I got a 'C,'" Zeke said, and he was pissed.

Casey didn't know what to say. He was quite familiar with the document in question because three weeks ago he had ended up typing it for Zeke. Despite the convenience of the brand new, lightning fast Dell computer that was installed in their bedroom, Zeke had managed to leave the assignment until the day before it was due. At that point Casey had volunteered to help Zeke, who had never learned to keyboard properly; it would have taken him all night to type those five pages, while Casey had gotten it done in little more than an hour. Zeke had vowed repeatedly that it would only be the one time but Casey didn't mind, really. He liked feeling that he was in possession of practical skills that made him useful, even necessary. On the advice of an eighth-grade teacher, he had taken a keyboarding course in high school, and never regretted it.

He had typed exactly what was written, making no comment to Zeke on the content or structure of it, not confident that his perceptions as a science student gave him the authority to revise a philosophy paper. Besides, it had always been very evident in high school that Zeke was naturally and effortlessly brilliant, and entirely self-sufficient in his learning. When Zeke decided that he wanted to pass courses, he did, and then some. He was not hospitable to anyone's suggestions, especially those of a computer geek who always came to class on time with his homework done.

Zeke added, "He said I show a lot of philosophical energy but I lack organization and clarity, the unimaginative old fart."

Casey still couldn't think of a reply that would make Zeke happy while being truthful. He said at last, "It's — it's not w-worth much, right? Y-you can make it up."

"You don't understand, Case. I don't get 'C's. I get 'F's or 'A's."

"Um..."

"You read it, did you think it was disorganized?"

"Um," Casey gulped.

"Tell me, what?"

"It... could... have... could have been more..."

Zeke exploded, "Why didn't you say anything!"

After a silence in which Casey struggled to remember that he was expected to answer out loud, he whispered, "You didn't ask."

"I — " Zeke started to retort. "Okay. I didn't ask. That's true. I'm sorry, Case, I'm just really annoyed at myself. I should have asked you, you're the poster child for academia, for fuck's sake."

That had to be a slightly nicer way of saying that he was the mother of all nerds.

Zeke sighed, "I mean that as a compliment, Case. You're good at this school thing, you always have been and it was stupid of me not to ask for your help. I'm not mad at you, all right? I'm going to take this as a sign that I need to study extra hard for the mid- term."

"Wh-when's that?"

"Friday. Er, listen... I need to ask you something. If you don't feel right about it, then say so, okay?"

"What?"

"I asked Winona if she wants to come over for a bit of a study session — but it would depend on what you said, of course."

"When d-do you want to... ?"

"Right now, actually."

Real life flickered like an image cast by a cheap projector. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the feel of the leather cell-phone cover in his hand as the request seeped and infected him. Right now, yes right now I want to bring over that Winona person for you to meet because you know and I know that I can't keep you in a box and only take you out to play with when no one else is around I want to take you out of your box and show you around to everyone... .See how pretty he is? See?

No one who believed in extra-terrestrial life should ever track down Casey Connor. The moment that they met him, they would lose all their faith. They might be prepared to accept that the kid who claimed to kill aliens was something other than a crackpot, but they would go away disillusioned when they discovered that it was possible to use up a lifetime supply of courage in doing just one thing. The alien invasion would officially become a hoax, because who would believe that a guy who poked out an alien queen's eye was now this derelict of a person who flipped out because his boyfriend wanted to bring a fellow student home?

"Casey? Casey, are you there?"

He heard Zeke breathing a bit too hard, and some voices in behind that. A large number of people laughing, arguing, talking. There was the sound of a television or just some music playing, maybe. He had a sudden, displeasing image of a woman sitting across from Zeke. Maybe she was having a smoke while filling in the half of the conversation that she couldn't hear. She kept rolling her eyes at Zeke.

"Is she listening?" Casey blurted.

"What are you talking about?"

"Is she — is Winona listening on the other end, can she hear what you're saying?"

"No..." Zeke replied, evidently not wanting to encourage his nutcase boyfriend by commenting further. "So... what do you say, Case?"

Right about then Casey saw Rick-Ron emerge from the relaxation room. The man's eyes were moving around, seeking... and they found Casey. Casey shifted his weight uneasily and tried to watch without looking like he was watching as he said, "Okay."

"Really? Are you sure? You're not just saying that because I want it?"

Yes.

"No. I'm... I'm supposed to do something to challenge myself... something that scares me... for homework."

The guy was coming in his direction, maybe not at him, though, maybe just to talk to the receptionist.

"Ah... well, it'll be fine, Case, you'll see."

"Hmm..."

"I owe you one."

"You owe me more than one," Casey teased, choking on it a little, not taking his eyes off Rick-Ron who was now only a few feet away, definitely approaching him and no one else.

"I know. I'm gonna go, but I'll see you at home shortly, okay?"

"Yeah."

Casey stabbed the end button with his thumb and faced his group leader, who had taken up a position in front of him, leaving a tolerable amount of space between them. His hands trembled, clutching the phone like a talisman. His other hand wormed into his pocket, stroking the little tin of pills.

"Excuse me," the man said.

Casey had just done his challenging deed for the week by promising to let Zeke bring his new pal into their apartment. "What?" he said, at this point not caring how anti- social he was.

"I just wondered if the sessions were helping — it's Casey, isn't it?"

He dared a glance at the man's eyes. He couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw some sort of unwarranted interest flickering. "Oh, yeah, sure..." he murmured.

"You know there are plenty of sessions at different times, and each of us does something a little different. If one isn't working for you, there are others."

Rick-Ron sounded like he wanted to help. The thing in his eyes could be professional curiosity; maybe he was wondering why Casey went to the trouble of dragging himself in to the clinic when he always laid there like a board for half an hour, and Casey wasn't going to explain that this session was the only one that enabled Sasha to drop him off and head straight to work and the alternatives were Casey walking both ways which was too much walking, or Sasha driving him both there and back which was too much to ask even though Sasha said he wouldn't mind... or Casey could take the bus both ways by himself which he'd be ready to do in, oh, maybe ten years.

"I know," Casey said. He fingered the metal tin. It felt warm and slightly greasy.

"You could also think about buying one of our tapes, maybe, and practising at home. It does take a lot of practise and it can be frustrating until you get the hang of it."

Now he knew what this was; it was a sales pitch and he could accept that. It had a feasible purpose, a logical beginning and end. "Thank you," Casey said, expecting the man would go away.

"Okay, then. My name's Rick, by the way. If you ever have any questions, or you'd like to talk..."

Casey nodded. Move... move... fucking move out of my way...

Rick stepped back, finally. "Take care, Casey. Remember to breathe."

With a cursory nod, Casey bolted; he almost forgot his windbreaker, hanging in the closet near the entrance to the clinic. He retrieved it quickly and scurried to the stairwell. The clinic occupied the top floor of a three-storey building — the Body-Mind Centre, it was called — so neither ascent nor descent were terribly onerous. Even so, most people seemed to prefer the elevator to the stairs — except Casey. In four weeks he had seen exactly three people in the stairwell.

At the bottom of the stairwell he stopped. As often happened, he found himself standing there, peering through the small rectangular window at the little clots of people moving haphazardly about the building's lobby. He tried examining each individual face on the other side of the glass for signs of danger but they were moving too quickly, and it wasn't like he had a definitive list of worrisome facial tics to compare against.

Some days it only took him a minute to shore up his will and go out there. Some days, like today, his limbs absolutely refused to move. Eventually they would have to move, though, because he needed to get home. Zeke got upset when he wasn't where he was supposed to be at the appointed time, and he didn't want to upset Zeke.

"Okay," he muttered. "You can do this for him at least. You might need to talk to yourself for an hour like a fucking maniac but you're going out that door." He laughed, the sound waves bouncing crazily all the way up the stairwell. "So brave... so fucking brave!"

It occurred to him that this was just the sort of thing that a person might want to discuss with their therapist. Except that he couldn't, not entirely. He had told Dr. Yves plenty of things: Where he lived, who he lived with, who his doctor was, which medication he was taking, how he spent his days... What were his major issues as far as he understood them. She knew that he had zone-outs and panic attacks and that he didn't trust people. She knew that he was constantly afraid and couldn't go a lot of places, that he couldn't take the bus or even go to school, that every time his boyfriend went out to lead a life, he was afraid he would never come back. So they had plenty to talk about without bringing his specific fears about aliens into it — which was good because even if he had wanted to talk about that, he couldn't.

 

The night before Casey's first appointment with Dr. Helen Yves, Zeke had felt the need to sit him down for a Serious Talk so that he would understand what he could say and what he could not say. At the time he certainly didn't need it, as his energies were more occupied with persuading himself that he was actually going to go willingly to the appointment. Of course, Zeke believed he was going, and Zeke was generally right about such matters.

They had the conversation sitting on the bed facing each other, with Zeke shaking and just about as distressed as Casey ever saw him get. "I need to ask you something," Zeke started. "About your appointment tomorrow... What are you going to tell her, Case?"

Casey was barely been able to think around the terror that had been building in him for the past several days. He was to be delivered to his fate tomorrow and there wasn't any way to stop it because you could be damned sure that Sasha and Zeke would see to it that he showed up.

"I need to know," Zeke pressed, his eyes getting that sharp, hard colour that they did when he was at his most intense.

And Casey was helpless again, so helpless that it was difficult to find the will to breathe. Go ye to therapy, said his friends, and he went. He had control of nothing, not even when and how much he ate. That night it had been Moroccan lamb tagine with dried fruit served on whole-wheat couscous — preceded by an iron pill appetizer — and a mixed berry tart for dessert. It was delicious, and it was all prepared by Sasha on one of his days off so Casey didn't dare not finish anything on his plate. He certainly didn't dare succumb to any nausea he might feel.

"You can't tell her about the aliens," Zeke said.

Casey muttered, "I know that."

"Remember she's a doctor like Spadoni. She may decide you're delusional and then she might remember some stuff from the news a few years ago and... we just don't want to go there, Casey."

How funny that it was Zeke who was now in a frenzy since it was Zeke who had made that appointment without consulting him. It was Zeke who was afraid of him tangling with the mental health profession, but it was always Zeke who was getting him into trouble with those people in the first place. Of course it was all because Zeke cared and Zeke worried about him but all the same... He didn't see how any shrink could help him. It was supposed to be his choice to do such things and if he didn't want to do it no shrink in the world could do him any good.

Meeting Zeke's eyes for the first time, Casey blurted out, "Or I could just not go."

He waited for the wrath of Zeke to fall upon him, but Zeke just raised his eyebrows and didn't look in the least bit disconcerted. "Case, you can't skip this."

"I'm doing all the other stuff... I'm trying, aren't I?"

Zeke put his hand on the nape of Casey's neck and massaged gently. "You aretrying, yes, I do see that. Sasha sees it, too, and it's awesome."

"If we just let things be, they'll fade and they won't... they won't be a problem, Zeke. I promise they won't."

Zeke rubbed his shoulder now. "Casey..."

Casey shrugged him away, wrapping both arms around his chest, holding himself. "Zeke... I don't want to talk about... some things."

"I hadn't noticed that," Zeke said, with a wistful smile.

"How can it help to make a person talk when they don't want to, some people do just fine putting their shit aside and letting it go — "

"Casey."

"— I don't see why I should have to do this when I'm working on everything, I'm trying as hard as I can, Dr. Chakri is helping me so why do I have to go talk to another doctor — "

Zeke again put a hand on one of Casey's shoulders. Casey was silenced, but his mind screamed I can't, I just can't... icanticanticant.

"It's important," Zeke said. "Just like going to see Dr. Chakri and following her instructions. It's the piece that's missing." One of his hands slid around to Casey's jaw, cupping it, stroking it slowly. He drew Casey closer to him. "Just think," he said as he gently urged Casey to lean against him. "You'll have a place to go and vent. You can tell her all the stuff that pisses you off about me."

"Nothing to tell," Casey mumbled, accepting the warmth of Zeke's body despite a pesky suspicion that he should be standing his ground.

"Oh, don't tell me you aren't annoyed with my controlling ways and my cigarette breath. Plus I'm impatient and I argue too much."

"Like you that way."

"Glad to hear it." Zeke had one arm secure around him; with his other, he stroked Casey's hand. "I'm sure it will feel good to talk about all the things that scare you, too."

"Except not the aliens."

"Do you want to talk about the aliens?"

Casey barely paused. "No."

"So it shouldn't be a problem. You know, this shrink is supposed to be very good, and I don't think good shrinks force people to talk about things they don't want to talk about."

"Zeke... When I think about going there... to see her..."

"What, Case?"

"I feel like I'll die."

Zeke's hand closed around Casey's, communicating strength and support, not to mention a will that would not be swayed. It might be challenged, but never quite overthrown. "You can't die from being afraid," Zeke told him.

Casey didn't quite believe that, but didn't feel like contradicting Zeke either. "Spadoni said that to me once... He said something like 'fear can't kill you'."

"As much as I hate to admit it, Spadoni might have been right on that one occasion."

The following day, he and Zeke took the first walk to Dr. Yves' office, a convenient twenty minutes from their apartment. The building was a converted townhouse with three other psychiatrists' offices in it. Zeke turned him over to the doctor at the door to her office with a promise that he would be just outside — no doubt so Casey would know that if he tried to leave, Zeke would be there to march him right back inside.

After Spadoni, who had so obviously needed to be perceived as hip and youthful, Dr. Yves was a surprise. She was a small, spare woman with grey hair who always dressed like a little old lady at a church tea. That day she was wearing a navy blue suit with a white blouse and pearls. With a minimal smile she welcomed Casey into her office and gave him his pick of couches and chairs. The style of the decor in the room could be described, graciously, as contemporary. The only part of it that showed any real personality were the framed wildlife prints on the walls and pottery sculptures of various animals on the shelves and her desk. There was one large piece on the floor, an owl perched in a tree.

Casey went to the nearest piece of furniture, an overstuffed armchair. It appeared to be comfy, but he had no way to verify that as he touched down on the edge; a second later, he was on his feet again. The doctor looked at him without much of an expression, and he sat back down. He couldn't believe he was here, couldn't accept it... He was here he was and it was happening he was right on the brink of disaster and destruction but that was somehow not sufficient to stop it.

"So... Casey," began the doctor.

"Y-yeah," he wheezed. Not possible to die of fear, yeah, sure... as if Zeke and Spadoni had a clue. His heart was thudding so hard it was rattling his body around and he couldn't breathe at all. It had to be possible to die from fear. Fear equalled gasping for air equalled no oxygen equalled asphyxiation equalled death.

The doctor was speaking in a calm voice. "It's good to meet you, Casey. My name is Dr. Helen Yves. I'd like to start with an interview, just so I can get to know you. It may take us several sessions to do that, actually. If you ever feel that I'm not the right doctor for you, you should tell me. It's perfectly okay."

He could only nod. Sounds were beyond him.

"Casey, I can see that you're very anxious. I want you to know that I'm here to help you. I'm just going to ask some basic questions to get us started and maybe that will help you to calm down." She waited, and when he didn't respond in any way other than to stare at her while breathing noisily, she began. "So how old are you, Casey?"

"N-nine-nine-teen."

"And where are you from?"

"H-H-Herring-Herrington, Oh... Oh..." He couldn't get out the rest.

"Herrington, Ohio?"

He nodded.

"I haven't heard of it. Is it a very large place?"

There had been a time, only minutes ago actually, that he had known the population of his home town along with a lot of other pertinent information, but now his mind was wasted of even the simplest abilities. He clenched his hands together, feeling tears gather in his eyes. To think that Zeke was right outside that door but not accessible to him — just like the door was not accessible to him he was so trapped here so trapped trapped trapped —

"The anxiety isn't getting any better, is it?"

That didn't seem to require any response.

"Is it about being here or something else?"

"Lots... things..."

"Let's take a few minutes to deal with that, we don't want you to have a full-out panic attack. Take your time and count ten breaths, very slowly. Count them out loud, okay, Casey?"

It was hopeless. He was going to die here in her office.

"One," she said, prompting him.

He tried. He was breathing so shallowly that the first one was over almost before it started and he rushed into the second one only to find that she was still enumerating that first one. It was no good, counting was stupid and he knew he was supposed to breathe so why did he have to count out loud he felt ridiculous like a child but then why should he feel ridiculous —

"Two..."

— when he was here in a psychiatrist's office and he was used to humiliation so why did he even care and what was the point of caring when she was going to ask him questions and find out everything or even worse she didn't need to find out because she already knew, she was one of them with her buttoned-up-to-the-neck shirt and her plastic jewellery she was just the kind to be one of them so perfectly normal it was bizarre —

"Are you counting, Casey... ? Three..."

"Th - three," he wheezed.

— bizarre to be so normal-looking but she probably dealt with people like him all day, it was her specialty after all and probably some people liked it that way it was important to look professional he supposed, but why not like Judd Hirsch in Ordinary People instead with his big, grey sweater and his brusque comfort —

"Four..."

— four four four was about the time when Zeke usually got back from school on Monday, a bit later if he needed to go to the library, of course Zeke was skipping class right now to be here, to make sure Casey was here but he would make it to the other one this afternoon and then he would come home and be with Casey and they would fuck so good so hot Zeke would pound him out flat and then he could sleep —

"Five..."

Of course this doctor would want to know about his relationship with Zeke and the minute she said he needed to keep his distance from Zeke or that homosexuality was a disease he would be out of here he was not going to put up with that he knew what he needed what he needed —

"Six..."

— what he needed because Zeke was what kept him going, Zeke was the only really restful place available to him and just thinking about Zeke's hands and skin, his arms and legs, his mouth, his cock, was calming.

"Seven..."

After they were done fucking Casey could lie there for a little while with everything erased in his head except Zeke's name... Zeke's name... which he knew was probably not good according to how other people thought and he wouldn't dare say it aloud because Zeke would be very upset. No, he could not tell Zeke about how he made Casey forget who and where he was and how that was so magnificent, so perfect and relaxing and sublime but there were those moments, just moments here and there, when he forgot who and where he was and terror overcame him instead but he never never let that interfere with him and Zeke —

"Eight."

— never, he pushed and thrust through whatever that was and felt nothing but that glorious unmindfulness, he would feel like every nerve convulsed with pure energy that burned him empty.

"Nine."

So when it was over there would still be Zeke in him like there would be later today if he just got through this.

"Ten," he said, and exhaled his last breath.

"Do you feel better?" Dr. Yves asked him.

"Yeah," he said, with a bit of a smile. Now he could sit in that chair and carry on a conversation, with the before and soon-to-be memories of silence holding him securely in place.

For the rest of that session, and a few sessions after that she gradually extracted from him a reasonably detailed account of his life. She heard about his childhood, how completely alone he had been for most of his teen years save for the regular abuse from Gabe and others. She heard about his leaving for college and how Roy had appeared and seemed for a while to have ended the solitude, until Casey soon found himself alone in an apartment, waiting always waiting, while Roy was out pretending Casey didn't exist. She heard about his devastation when Roy dumped him and his depression over the summer — and then, how Zeke had appeared almost magically in his room one day. She heard about the terrible thing that he had done to Zeke and how everything finally and utterly crashed when Zeke found out. How he kept doing terrible things to Zeke but still Zeke was with him. How he needed Zeke.

He could have filled years worth of therapy talking about Zeke.

After they had finished his history — minus aliens, of course — Dr. Yves asked Casey to complete the multiple choice questionnaire that she normally used to establish a diagnosis. She explained to him that it was just a guide, something to help her understand where they needed to go with the therapy and that she didn't entirely put stock in the labels. He spent one entire session on her couch pencilling in little oval shapes, while she did some other work on her computer.

At his next session, they went over the results. She showed him a line chart with his various scores. Essentially, he was a walking psychiatric buffet, serving up depression, generalized anxiety, panic attacks, dissociation, agoraphobia, social anxiety and last but not least, borderline traits. A definitive diagnosis was not recommended.

"The good thing," Dr. Yves reassured him, "is that we know what we need to work on." That was a joke, apparently; she actually cracked a bit of a smile when she said it.

"What about this... this 'borderline' thing?" he asked, pointing to that little dot on her chart. He was sure he'd heard that term somewhere, probably in a movie. He had an impression that it meant dangerous and unstable; it called forth images of the dead family pet stewing in a pot on the stove. "What does it mean exactly?"

"Yes, that's an interesting one." As she spoke, Dr. Yves was rifling through her DSM-IV, a tome that dwarfed bibles and dictionaries. "Ah. Here we are, I'll read you exactly what it says here... 'Borderline personality disorder is a pervasive pattern of instability of interpersonal relationships, self-image and affects, and marked impulsivity beginning by early adulthood and present in a variety of contexts, as indicated by five of the following'... are you with me, Casey?"

"Yeah."

"Good... going on, then — 'as indicated by five of these behaviours or tendencies... Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment... A pattern of unstable and intense interpersonal relationships characterized by alternating between extremes of idealization and devaluation... Markedly and persistently unstable self-image or sense of self... Impulsivity in at least two areas that are potentially self-damaging, such as spending, sex, substance abuse, reckless driving, binge eating... Recurrent suicidal behaviour, gestures, or threats, or self-mutilating behaviour... Affective instability due to a marked reactivity of mood... Chronic feelings of emptiness... Inappropriate, intense anger or difficulty controlling anger'... And the last one is transient, stress-related paranoid ideation or severe dissociative symptoms."

Dr. Yves gave him a long, steady look. He had the impression that she was waiting for a response, but he couldn't fathom what it should be.

She asked, "Do you understand what all that means?"

"More or less."

She raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure? There are a lot of technical terms."

"I think I know what most of them mean... I don't know 'affect'... not sure about 'ideation,' but I can guess."

"'Ideation' refers to recurring thoughts and ideas that are paranoid but fall short of delusion... things like 'Zeke is going to leave.'"

Casey's stomach plummeted; his pulse broke tempo and accelerated momentarily. He shifted in his chair, fighting down the mad compulsion to run home.

Dr. Yves continued, "'Affect' simply refers to the emotional or mood component of your personality. It's the crying, the laughing, the yelling... as opposed to the cognitive, which refers to what you think about. It's an important distinction for you and me, because at some point I want to start integrating a more cognitive approach to your therapy."

He nodded to indicate that he understood, taking a longish breath to convince his heart that there was no reason for flight just yet.

"So what do you think?"

"About... ?"

"About the definition I just read to you."

"It... sounds like me," he admitted, figuring he didn't have a choice, not when he was confronted with those crisp, clinical terms. At another time in his life he would have debated the meaning and application of each one of them. He would have argued that abandonment was very real, and so was emptiness. And losing yourself could be the best thing that ever happened to you. At the moment, though, he just felt defeated. He knew that science was a slippery thing, and psychiatry one of the slipperiest of them all, but couldn't ignore the truth in what he was hearing either.

Dr. Yves made a gesture that was rather noncommittal, neither a nod nor a shake. "It does seem to reflect a lot of what you've told me about yourself, Casey, but in my opinion you don't entirely meet the criteria... although I would say that you are well on your way. Many of these points sound very much like you, but we have to remember that for a diagnosis of BPS, the symptoms have to be pervasive, repetitive and long-term. You see, Casey, people don't always fit neatly into these diagnoses and the process of diagnosing can be quite fluid. Diagnoses change over time, too, just as a personality can change. I do believe that if you continue in your current patterns of behaviour, you could meet each and every one of the borderline criteria at some point in the future. The good thing is you're here and we can work on changing those patterns. Can I ask you... when you were in hospital over the summer, were you diagnosed with any particular condition?"

"Just depression, I think."

"From what you've told me, I suspect that at the time that was probably the most obvious aspect of your condition at the time. Of course, depression is in many cases not a 'standalone' if you will, but a symptom or secondary feature of a primary diagnosis. It is quite difficult to do a full assessment of a person when they're extremely withdrawn, and if they are withdrawn, depression would be a logical diagnosis."

Dr. Yves beckoned for him to look at the zigzag line on the chart in front of them again.

"So if we were to interpret this piece of paper," she went on, "and this middle line is a threshold or an indicator of where we consider a symptom to become a symptom rather than a personality trait... you follow me?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Now you see, you have quite a number of features well above that line, but not all of them are consistent with a diagnosis of borderline syndrome. The dissociation, the general anxiety, the depression, yes. The social anxiety and agoraphobia are extreme and pretty much stand alone. That's easy for me to say, of course. As you experience these symptoms I'm sure they all feel like one great big puzzle with a million pieces. It is a bit artificial to parcel up a person's reality into these little dots and lines... but that is what we try to do, just as a guideline. On the other hand, having a strict diagnosis isn't the important thing, it's understanding the reasons why you feel and act the way you do. I would rather think about it like this... not that you have a disorder, but that you score into what we would call the pathological range with borderline symptoms. Do you know what 'pathological' means?"

"Yes," he said, not meeting her eyes. "It means 'sick.'"

"That isn't the term I'd use."

"You're saying that my relationship with Zeke is wrong."

"Not wrong — "

"Unstable, then."

"I'm talking about all your relationships, but yes, primarily your relationship with Zeke, and with Roy of course."

"I'm not giving him up." Casey heard his voice slip into a slightly hysterical register.

Dr. Yves seemed startled. "I'm not saying that you should 'give up' Zeke. My role here is not to judge your relationships or advise you on what you should or shouldn't do. But I will ask you this. Are you happy with Zeke?"

"Yes," he said flatly.

"Let me put it this way. Do you think it's healthy for you that your entire happiness hinges on being able to keep him, and that you spend so much of your energy worrying about keeping him?"

Casey muttered, "I wouldn't put it like that..."

"How would you put it?"

A long silence followed. That was one thing about therapy with Dr. Yves. Sometimes there would be these silences and she would just let them go until Casey was ready to speak. Sometimes the longer the silence, the harder it got to muster up something, and he would even get to the point where he refused to speak out of sheer, obdurate resentment. You think I can't sit here for forty-five minutes without talking? See if I can't. This time, though, he knew what he wanted to say but he couldn't say it because he couldn't have it torn apart: I love him, that's how I would put it.

She finally broke the deadlock, after they had sat there wasting the insurance company's money for half an hour or so.

"Okay, Casey. I think we're done for today, so I'll let you go. But I'd like you to think about what we talked about. Also, I want you to keep a journal from now on. You don't have to record every detail of your life. There are three things I'd like you to focus on: The first one is your relationship with Zeke. What goes on between you, what concerns you, your feelings in general. Second, your fears about being with people, when and where specifically the fear affects you, and how it affects you. If you have a panic attack or an episode of dissociation, I want you to write down where and when it occurred, as close to the event itself as possible. I would also like you to keep notes for me on your mood from day to day. Mood is such a subjective thing that it is difficult to keep track of from day to day sometimes. I might ask a person 'how is your week' and they might say 'fine' because that particular day they are feeling fine, when really they were feeling depressed most of the time. Will you do that for me?"

He nodded.

"Good. With all this information we'll be able to identify our topics for discussion very easily."

So from then on he was to keep two journals; one for Dr. Chakri and one for Dr. Yves. He had been finding it challenging to write things down as they actually happened. He was always having to sit down and catch up, which meant that he rarely had information that was perfectly accurate.

Not that they had gotten to use the journal much. Each time, he went in resolved to not just hemorrhage emotions all over her, but she would start by asking him how he was, he would try to tell her, and that would consume the entire session. After a few sessions in this vein, he became convinced that she didn't like him much. They would discuss such intimate subjects that he couldn't help feeling a strange sort of closeness to her, and yet she never anything but reserved with him. She rarely smiled. Maybe she even hated him, maybe she went home to her family — if she had a family — and talked about this borderline homosexual who came in twice a week ranting about how he was terrified of losing his boyfriend.

At his most recent session, after he had finished telling her how it tormented him to think of Zeke being with Winona on campus every day, Dr. Yves had just looked at him and said calmly, "Have you talked to Zeke about your concerns about Winona?"

"No... I don't say anything because he already spends so much time reassuring me and... and I don't want to be that way. Roy always said that, don't be that person, Casey, and he was right I don't want to be that person..."

"What person is that?"

"A jealous bitch."

"Hmm." Dr. Yves wrote something on her notepad, probably along the lines of refers to himself in derogatory terms... "Do you think that Zeke is actually interested in this woman?" she asked, returning her gaze to him.

"No... I don't know."

"When you say you don't know is it because he's done something that suggests he has an interest in her, or is it just a feeling?"

"Just a feeling, I guess — but he's just always with her. He's with her all day and... and they've done things together. Without me."

"Did he ask you if you wanted to come with them?"

"Yeah. He always asks, even though he knows I won't go."

"What sort of things do they do together?"

"They go to lectures or they just explore the city."

"Do you think he's trying to exclude you when he spends time with her?"

"No... He wants me to do more things with him, he gets sad when I say I can't. Or won't, I guess."

There was a pause, while Dr. Yves wrote a bit more. "Have you met her?" she said when she was done.

"No..."

"So she's just this name that you hear all the time. She isn't quite real to you so it's easy to see her as a threat rather than a person. Maybe he only mentions her because he's trying to tell you about his day, and since she's there, her name is going to come up."

"Maybe."

"I think it would help if you met her, if you saw how she and Zeke actually interact. Right now you're going on one hundred percent imagination. What if you started to include yourself a bit more? Just start with one thing, something that feels manageable."

"I guess... but... I'm always tired..."

Dr. Yves showed no sign of having heard that. "How about you give it a try," she urged, "and then we can discuss how it goes."

"Okay," he assented, with absolutely no idea if he would be able to follow through on it.

 

Zeke closed his phone with a satisfied snap and wandered the few feet back to the small, round table he was sharing with Winona in their usual hang-out, known affectionately on campus as "The Study." It was a student-operated coffee shop, located in the basement of the student union. On Wednesday and Friday he came here to fill that block of time between three, when his last class ended, and the three-thirty bus, which got him home shortly after Casey got home from his relaxation therapy. On other days the schedule was slightly different, but the premise was generally the same: Zeke would be at school while Casey went about his various routines, and they would arrive at home roughly at the same time.

"We're on," he said.

Winona had been reading one of her books but broke off at his return and closed it, shrugging. "As long as it's okay."

"It's okay."

Not only that, it was a good fucking idea. They hadn't had anyone new over to the apartment in over a month — not since Jerry, who was now a regular visitor and that appeared to cause Casey no particular discomfort. It was time to expand on Casey's circle of acquaintances, and more to the point, it was time for Casey to meet Winona.

They hadn't talked about it, but every time Zeke mentioned Winona, or even implied her, Casey would quietly freak out. His body would shift into panic mode just like that. Muscles would clench, his heart rate would shoot up... and that was the least troubling aspect of the Winona Effect. Over the past month, Casey had become almost talkative and Zeke was ecstatic about that. He didn't remark upon it or let Casey know how it thrilled him for fear that he would somehow damage the foundation that Casey had managed to chip out of his bedrock of silence — except that Zeke occasionally made the mistake of speaking a certain name, and when he did that it would be like summer all over again. Casey would suddenly get quiet again, even docile. Whatever Zeke suggested, he would agree to. Zeke had a pretty good idea of what it was all about, and it was a bit maddening that Casey seemed to think Zeke might suddenly revert to a person that he wasn't anymore, but then, to be fair, he had still been that person only three months ago. And yeah, if Casey hadn't come along, he would probably still be seeking companionship exclusively on the female side of the fence.

What Casey didn't see, what he couldn't seem to comprehend, was that he more than fulfilled Zeke's desire. He was a surfeit, a spilling over, and a paradox that was fascinating and frustrating. He kept coming onto Zeke with all the appearance of complete confidence and yet he still existed in constant terror that he would be left — as though Zeke could possibly give up the most stimulating, addictive, unexpected but wondrous part of his life. There was that play by Shakespeare, Zeke couldn't remember which one but Bill had gotten it so right: Being with Casey, touching Casey, making love to Casey... Well, that only fed the thing it was supposed to satisfy. Giving in had given him less control, not more, and it was getting to the point that he had trouble remembering why control had anything to say on the subject.

Zeke didn't particularly want to spend tonight studying, nor studying in the company of other people, but if he went home and spent the evening in Casey's company, there would be no studying. Stokely might come over after she got off work but eventually she would leave and he and Casey would end up doing what they almost always did... on a bed, a couch, in the shower, against a wall... and Sasha need never know what they had done with his favourite chair. There should have been time for studying, but somehow it just never happened when the two of them were alone.

"Is this a good night for it?" Winona asked him when he had been silent for a bit too long.

"Huh? Oh, yes... I need to crack down now."

Winona hesitated before commenting. "Not happy with your mark on your paper, I guess."

"No."

"It seemed fine to me."

"Well..." He refrained from comment. Winona had read the paper, and hadn't said anything in the least bit constructive. "I'm going to be extra diligent about the next one. And I'm going to get Casey to critique me."

"Casey?"

"Yeah... He was on the Dean's list the last two years in college and he was a straight 'A' student all through high school."

"Hmm."

"What?" he asked, pinning her with a look.

"I don't want to be nosy but... why isn't he in school now?"

That was a bit of a surprising question, since she was already acquainted with the idea that Casey was ill. There was no way she could not be, observing what she did of Zeke's life. She didn't know the intimate details because she didn't ask and Zeke didn't tell, but she did see the phone calls, she knew about the need to keep everything according to schedule. And now she was going to meet the boyfriend in the flesh, so it was fair that she be warned in advance if there was something to be warned about.

"Okay," Zeke said. "You've probably figured out that... there are some issues."

"Yeah, and I didn't think I should say anything..."

"I appreciate that." Zeke checked his watch. They had ten minutes to get to the bus stop. "Let's start walking, okay, I'll explain on the way."

She nodded, standing up and collecting her things. She kept all of her books and notebooks in a battered, brown leather briefcase that she carried with her everywhere; it was full to bursting most of the time and had to have weighed at least twenty pounds.

"Casey's dealing with some things right now. He doesn't really like to go out."

"Out... like out?"

"Yes."

"You mean he's like... oh, what's that called — agraphobic?"

"Agoraphobic," he corrected. "In a way, yes. It's hard for him to be out of the apartment, although he does do it when he has to." Zeke searched his brain for the things he could say that felt appropriate. "This is hard... Basically, not long ago he was very sick, and he is recovering but... I need to be available for him."

"That's why he always calls, then? He needs to know where you are?"

"No."

Winona snapped a look at him, still walking.

"I need to know where he is," Zeke told her. "I bought him the phone, I asked him to call at certain times. It's for me."

"Oh," was all she said.

They were at the bus stop, and just in time as it was in sight, only a block away. They didn't speak further until they had climbed on board, finding a seat together towards the front. The bus was almost but not quite full. Quite contrary to his own expectations, Zeke had come to enjoy this part of his day. He liked having those minutes to just reflect, or read something, or to just watch people. Lately, Sasha was getting a lot more use out of the Mustang than he was.

"So," Winona wondered when they were settled, "are there things I shouldn't say... or do?"

"Oh, no. Casey likes for everyone to act as normal as possible around him. I just wanted to explain."

Winona smiled. She had a very winning smile, full of white teeth. "No, you just wanted to warn me to be nice."

Zeke shrugged. "Maybe."

"I think I'm pretty nice in general," Winona said archly.

"Sure," Zeke agreed. "You're plenty nice."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

She was nice, he was nice, and Casey was going to be trying his best. Still, now that they were only minutes from home, Zeke had to admit that there was something crawling uneasily in his stomach.

Of course this was a good idea, because he needed to find ways to pry Casey further out of his cocoon. He was always trying things, always making suggestions about going for coffee, going to movies, museums, bookstores, restaurants... His proposals were almost never accepted, probably because the times that he chose to suggest something usually coincided with the times that Casey's reserves were at their lowest. Zeke felt instinctively that it was important to keep asking anyway.

It helped that today his proposal was doctor-endorsed — but there was a secret and somewhat shameful part of all this. The truth, born of all the overwrought, obsessive places in him, was that he wanted to see Casey unfurl himself before different eyes than his. He wanted to watch them watch Casey. Providing, of course, that it was clearly understood that they were to watch only. They would look but not touch, not unless they had some mad, burning desire to find out what it felt like to be skinned alive.

He was not at all proud of himself for wanting what he wanted. He'd never do it if practicality didn't suggest it, he'd never put Casey on display for no other reason than to suit his own insane, voyeuristic pride. Really, he wouldn't. He was just getting lucky this time.

 

After an eternity of waiting, the street light changed to green. Casey stepped out, not quite managing to avoid a small puddle as he put a wide margin between himself and a girl illegally riding her bicycle on the sidewalk, and scrambled to the adjacent corner. Now, finally, he was on his own block. He loved everything on his block, every store, every bit of signage, every crack in the concrete. Being on his block meant that he had almost made it, that he was probably going to survive one more time.

The professionals liked to think that there was a therapeutic purpose to this torture; they jargonized it with nice, technical-sounding words like "clinical desensitization" so they could feel scientific. They could have just called it the "just get used to it" approach — but whatever name you gave it, it was majorly flawed. These professionals evidently had great faith in the myth of cause and effect. As far as Casey was concerned, every time he stepped outside, he was increasing his chances of destruction and just because nothing had happened every single time thus far didn't mean he could assume that nothing would happen the next time. They were scientists, for fuck sake, they should have known better.

Passing in front of Wellth, he involuntarily glanced in. Stokely was at the cash and she saw him, signalling that she wanted him to come in.

He didn't want to go in there, he wanted to be at home... but home was going to mean home invasion today. That impending reality enabled him to slow himself down, veering into the store — and so there, Dr. Yves, he didn't always have to do everything exactly according to routine.

The welcoming bells jangled loudly. He stood in the doorway for a few seconds, gasping like he had just run all the way here — which, come to think of it, he had — and surveying the store while he shifted his weight uneasily, not letting his feet get too attached to that one spot on the floor. One, two, three... four... four apart from Stokely and Tara — that he could see. There could still be more people in the aisles.

Stokely waved him over, so he went. He put his back against the wall of cosmetics adjacent to the cash registers.

"Hey, Case," Stokes said, giving him a warm smile.

He nodded a bit, too breathless to speak right then, and his eye happened to catch Tara's. Her eyes flickered before settling on his, just while she said, "Hi, Casey," and then they were off and away.

He made Tara nervous. She had been uneasy around him to start with, but it really didn't help that two weeks ago she had come by to fix their kitchen faucet and innocently triggered an incident.

Unusually, Casey had been the only one at home even though it wasn't yet midday; Sasha had left early to do some personal errands and was going to go straight on to work for three. Casey had found himself with some time before he had to leave for his therapy appointment, and it was a gap that wasn't big enough to be filled with a movie; the dishes were washed, the apartment pristine, and even his journal had been attended to, so it had occurred to him that he might borrow one of Zeke's books. Zeke read extensively, both fiction and non-fiction. He usually had two or three on the go at the same time, plus a stack of magazines he would be working his way through. Most of his books were still in boxes, but there was one small shelf in the bedroom occupied by some Tolstoys and Dostoyevskis and Hugos alongside a few Grishams and Kings.

For most of his life, Casey too had been a voracious consumer of books. Yet for the past few months he hadn't read anything except fucked-up, diabolical letters from ex- boyfriends, and they didn't count. He hadn't been able to focus on very much else, though. There was the book on anxiety and panic that Dr. Yves had asked him to read, but it was pretty easy-going, filled with pictures, anecdotes and checklists. A novel was something else, something he missed and worried that he wouldn't be able to handle. He was afraid to even contemplate reading an actual textbook, afraid that there really was something wrong with his brain that never would get any better.

So to start, he had chosen something trashy and accessible and gone up to the roof to enjoy what was becoming increasingly rare — a sunny day. Sitting in one of the wicker chairs he opened the book, nearly too anxious to read past the cover. A few pages in, he had to stop reading and fight back tears because he was having no trouble concentrating whatsoever.

He had been quite engrossed in the book when Tara let herself in downstairs, mistakenly believing that no one was home. He supposed she had called out and he didn't hear. What he did hear, minutes later, was the crash of metal on metal, and a meaty curse. He had crept down the stairs and haunted the stairwell, peering through the door to the kitchen that was open a crack. From the back of her, he hadn't been able to make any kind of reasonable assessment of who she might be. He had finally blurted out, "What are you doing?" rather loudly and she dropped her wrench and yelled, "Jesusfuckingchrist!" She had seemed very large and very angry when she whirled on him.

From there it had just degenerated, as he streaked past her to the bathroom, slamming and locking the door. She didn't stay long after that, although she did make some attempts to talk to him and quickly discerned that she wasn't going to get a response. The second she gave up and left the apartment, he had stolen down the hall and locked the door to the outside, putting the security chain on. Then he returned to the bedroom, where he had choked down a Xanax and balled himself up on the bed. He had slept through that day's appointment with Dr. Yves, failed to phone Zeke as scheduled, and had still been unconscious when Zeke got home. He was finally torn unwillingly from the void by Zeke shouting through a few-inches-wide crack between door and frame while violently rattling the chain. Apparently, Zeke had tried to force his way in and found the door a lot more resistant than he had expected.

Once the earlier debacle was presented to him, Zeke had been furious. It had taken some creative persuasion to prevent Zeke from coming down on Tara like a natural disaster. Tara would never know of her narrow escape; she had phoned to apologize and Zeke had calmly asked her to please phone in advance from now on before performing any superintendent duties.

Even now, to Casey the shape of Tara seemed to suggest a vague menace. "H- hi, Tara," he said, as brightly as he could considering he was still trying to catch his breath.

"Um... how's that faucet working out?"

"It's, um..." he said, having no idea. There was no reason why he shouldn't have an idea, though. He had gotten into the habit of doing the dishes a lot, in trade for all of the cooking that Sasha did for him. "Good... thanks."

Stokely broke it to him: "I've got a new tea for you to try out."

That meant she wanted to come upstairs and visit with him. His collection of tea was getting quite large, thanks to Stokely; it was a running experiment between them. There were several teas in the cupboard that he quite liked — and others he did not and wouldn't come into contact with again if he could help it. There was that one — Valerian — that was supposed to be good for helping a person to get mellow except that the smell of it was strongly reminiscent of dirty socks. At some point, when it was safe to do so, he was going to throw that one out. For the time being, it was mouldering in the back of the cupboard.

"Okay," he said, nodding quickly. It got him what he really wanted; Stokely would be accompanying him upstairs to face Zeke and Winona, if they were already there.

They weren't.

He took advantage of the reprieve to duck into the bedroom. He wouldn't have the luxury of a full hibernation as he usually did, not with Stokely here, but at least he could linger in privacy and wait for the shakes to subside a bit before he went back out there. After a few minutes just sitting on the edge of the bed, he made himself get up and go back to the kitchen.

Stokes had put the kettle on to boil and pulled out Casey's favourite tea mug.

"What is... what is this one?" Casey asked, taking his position on the other side of the kitchen island.

"Burdock root," she replied, visibly appreciating his nervous state but not remarking on it. "It cleanses the liver and kidneys and purifies the blood."

"Not going to purify the blood too m-much, I hope," he said. "I'd hate to be taking all these pills for n-nothing."

She looked quickly at him and eventually decided that a crooked grin was the right comeback. "Of course not."

"Aren't you going to have some?" he asked. His hands were ice-cold. He buried them inside his long sleeves, looking forward to having a warm mug to wrap them around.

"I'll have some tea, sure." Stokely opened the tea cupboard, as it was coming to be known. "Ah, yes... peach passion-fruit." She took a bag out and found herself a mug in the dish rack. While she fiddled with her tea bag, she said, "So... what're you guys up to tonight?"

If it were anyone else he would have seen innuendo first, but it was Stokely, who ate dinner and watched movies with them a lot of nights. If she didn't get an invitation she would hint around for one until it came.

Stokes was lonely. She had yet to receive a satisfactory response on her roommate notice, so she was living by herself and obviously didn't like it. She worked hard at not being sad, and she didn't ask about Stan too much although she knew that Casey and Zeke saw him. Once, by accident the four of them had all ended up together at the same time, and everyone was friendly. Casey was impressed by her strength. She broke up with her boyfriend and after a decent mourning period got back to living her life. He had broken up with his boyfriend and laid down to die. See, Dr. Yves, he was not entirely without insight. It was just that insight didn't necessarily make a sliver of a difference.

"Actually... Zeke is bringing his — his university friend — home for a study session," Casey said, with a shudder.

Stokes' brows went up. "That's something different," she said.

"Yeah."

"Who is this friend?"

"Winona." He was pleased with how lightly he said that name that reverberated through his entire body like some sort of painful spasm. He added, perhaps a bit too quickly and too obviously, "He just hangs out with her on campus."

"Have you met her?"

"Not yet."

Stokes gave him a keen look. "I guess that makes you... um... a bit nervous?"

"The water's boiling."

She blinked at his little sidestep. Turning off the heat, she removed the kettle from the burner and poured hot water. She slid Casey's mug across the island towards him. He leaned against the island, resting his elbows on top of it, and sniffed at the tea. Like many of the teas Stokely had him try, it had a slightly medicinal, tree-infused fragrance.

"Tell me if I shouldn't say things, Case."

He shrugged. "It's okay. You're right... the only people we've been having in the apartment are you and S-Stan and Jerry."

"Except for Tara that time," Stokes added.

He felt his face heat up. "She told you about that."

"Oh, she was just mortified, Case!"

"What did she say?"

"That she scared the hell out of you and she felt terrible."

"But I scared her."

"I think she forgot about that part. You just startled her, anyway. She knows she isn't supposed to go into a tenant's apartment without permission."

"We asked her to."

"Of course it was just a mix-up — but she felt bad, and — she didn't really know what to do, you know?"

Yeah, he knew. What was a person to do when someone crept up on you from behind, yelled boo!, then dashed down the hall and locked themselves in the bathroom? Tara could have chosen to just show herself out, but she had done the conscientious thing and went to knock on the bedroom door and ask if he needed any help. He had been in no state to hear it and yelled at her to goawaygoawaygoaway...

"Stokes," he said, feeling the trembling that had almost subsided start up again.

"Yeah, Case?"

"Can you stay here?"

"When? Now? Oh, I can't, Case, really. I'm sorry. But I can come right back up later, after work... if you want me to."

"I want you to."

"Okay. You know I don't really like being alone much, anyway. Are you going to try your tea?"

He cradled his mug, took a sip. It didn't taste bad, but he wasn't sure he could distinguish it from a lot of other herbal teas. He was getting to be familiar with a few of them. Chamomile, green, mint, rooibos — all of those, he knew that he liked.

"How is it?" Stokes asked him.

"Good."

"Really?"

"It's fine, Stokes... When do you get off work?"

"At six. I'll be right up." She seemed to be wanting to say something else. He waited; she hesitated; finally, she plunged. "You know, I had an idea the other day."

"What?"

"We're looking for someone to work part-time in the store and I thought that maybe you could — "

"No."

"Hear me out, Case. I'm talking about ten hours a week max. That's like two hours or less a day, and it would be just stocking shelves so you wouldn't really need to talk to the public. It would mostly be just me and Tara."

He put his tea down on the counter and folded his arms across his chest. Well, his dad would be rejoicing if he did this. In his e-mails, his dad never actually came out and said, son, I'd like you to have an occupation besides sleeping and meditating or whatever it is you do at that clinic and having gay sex. His dad would mention school as often as he could, as though he feared that Zeke and Sasha really wanted to reduce Casey to the status of houseboy.

"I don't know," he said. Anxiety was standing down, and tiredness was arriving, with all its luggage in tow.

"Just think about it, okay, Case? It can wait a bit." Stokely sighed and stretched her arms over her head. "I've gotta get back. See you."

She left her still mostly full cup of tea behind. Casey forgot his on the counter, going into the bedroom and pulling his afghan over his head as he curled in a ball. The afghan was new, a gift from Zeke after seeing him shiver one too many times. It was some sort of wool knit in a deep ochre, from one of the hippie shops in the neighbourhood. He liked the way the light became diffused beneath the yellow fabric. It was soothing on his eyes, and he liked to imagine sometimes that he was never coming out of there.

 

Their door was unlocked. That did not make Zeke happy, although it could have been worse. The door could have been locked and chained like it had been that day about two weeks ago. He had stood out there calling to Casey and pounding on the door for about ten minutes before Casey finally appeared, alive but not quite well. Ten minutes that Zeke hoped he would never have to relive.

Perhaps people didn't readily see it, but Zeke had his own version of anxiety. Internally, he supposed, it felt just like anxiety that anyone else would have. Externally, it took the form of him threatening to tear someone's eyes from their skull or otherwise cripple them slowly and painfully. The Tara Situation had been one such case. That had taken him several hours to recover from, and only after some very focussed attention from Casey. Later, after Casey was asleep, Zeke had dug up a screwdriver and removed the security chain and latch from the door. He assumed that Casey had noticed, although he hadn't said anything about it.

"Case?" he called out.

The place was silent. Zeke wondered if Casey might have freaked after getting off the phone earlier and taken a Xanax when he got home, in which case he would be unconscious and successfully avoiding this entire exercise.

"Casey?" he called again. Winona was crowding in behind him. "Come on in," he said, dropping his backpack, kicking off his shoes.

When he looked up, Casey was standing a few feet away in the hallway, draped in his personal brand of complete silence.

Just like that, and just like always, Zeke's heart started to pound. It didn't make any difference that the world at large might not have the same perception of Casey as he did. Winona would be looking, and seeing... what? Maybe someone too beautiful and too fey to be someone's boyfriend. Maybe a weird little guy with a glow-in-the-dark complexion, a perpetual case of bedhead, and big bug eyes. All Zeke knew was that whenever he looked, he got punched in the gut. There was the possibility that he was just like every other guy who could be led around by his penis — yet it couldn't just be him seeing it, not when there was so much of Casey that was clearly way beyond the ordinary.

"Hi," Winona said to Casey, very casually.

Casey kept his silence woven tight around him. He barely glanced at Winona, his pupils opening up, widening and swallowing Zeke. Zeke took several steps forward, ostensibly to get out of Winona's way; their porch was always a challenge for more than one person. Casey didn't move, waiting to receive him. He finished the distance and hugged Casey, found him shivering with nerves and need. He bore a faint scent of the laundry soap that they used, over a sharp tinge of fear sweat. The goop that he used in his hair smelled like oranges; it seemed entirely possible that Zeke's cock would have a Pavlovian response to citrus until the day he died. It was twitching, awakening right now, and it didn't give a shit about studying and getting good grades. Zeke was reminded, quite vividly, of one very pragmatic reason that he had brought Winona home with him.

Stepping back, Zeke cleared the excitement from his throat so he could speak. "Case... this is Winona, my friend that you keep hearing about."

Standing close to Zeke,with an arm around his back, Casey finally looked at Winona. He said, "Hi."

Winona said, "I hope you don't mind me getting in your space. We'll be quiet, I promise."

Casey's only response was to unwind himself from Zeke and drift into the kitchen. He passed by Winona without seeing her. It seemed he had a mug of something on the go; he tasted it, making a face. Reaching for the kettle, he said, "I'm making a pot oftea... would you like some?"

"I... uh... don't like tea," Winona replied. "Sorry... but I'd love some coffee."

Casey nodded curtly and grabbed the pot from the coffee maker to fill it. "Pulling an all-nighter?"

"Oh, I don't know. I just drink about a pot of coffee a day. I'm constantly caffeinated." So saying, Winona moved from the hallway into the open space they used as their dining area. "Can we spread out our books here?"

Zeke dragged his backpack over and sat down. From where he was, he could observe Casey going through the motions of making coffee, pouring the water into the machine, measuring the grounds — except he didn't measure, he just poured freely, perhaps hoping to murder Winona by way of caffeine poisoning. His eyes flickered, meeting Zeke's with an expression both purposeful and lazy, and the air between them thickened.

"Stokely coming over later?" Zeke asked Casey.

"Yeah." It might have been a trick of the light, but Casey's eyes were nearly black right then.

Zeke got up and went into the kitchen. On the pretext of reaching into the cupboard for mugs, he stood right behind Casey, his arms on either side of his body while his hips gently nudged Casey into the counter. "What are you going to do?" he said quietly.

"I'll read for a bit," Casey murmured. Pause, then: "I wouldn't want to distract you."

"You don't distract me."

"Oh... I guess I'd need to try harder." Casey acknowledged the tumescence that was now pressed up against his backside with a slight roll of his hips, then slipped out of the space between Zeke and the counter.

Zeke had nothing left to do but flick the "on" switch on the coffee maker and take several deep, self-sedating breaths. As he did so, he refocussed on the environment external to himself and Casey, and noted that Winona was no longer at the dining room table.

He found both her and Casey in the living room, the two of them standing side- by-side in a tableau that was immediately and self-evidently aberrant to Zeke's struggling eyes. He had wanted to get two sectors of his life into one continuum; now he had it, and he was finding it a challenge to wrap his brain around it.

"Two things," Winona said. "This apartment is really clean. And that is one honkin' big television."

The apartment was indeed spotless. Between Sasha the obsessive and Casey the depressive, the place never got more than slightly untidy. For Sasha, it was about having a home that was as close to the Martha Steward ideal as possible, and that meant constant attention to where things were collecting on surfaces and the removal of any visible dust or dirt. For Casey, it was about wanting to be helpful to Sasha. Sometimes he actually got upset if anyone washed the dishes before he could get to them.

Of the TV, Zeke said, "It's even bigger when it's actually on."

Winona made a scolding face. "No procrastinating," she teased.

"Okay, okay," Zeke placated quickly.

"Hey, Casey... what's your preferred technique?"

"My... technique... ?" Casey stammered.

"For studying in college. I hear you're a real whiz."

The expression that Casey turned on Zeke was sheer betrayal, and Zeke made himself look back without cringing. He hadn't told Winona much, and why should he not brag about his boyfriend's smarts? It wasn't like Winona had said anything provocative.

"Well, I..." Casey said, and let his voice fade before he could even get started.

"Yes?" Winona urged. "I'm totally serious, Casey. Um... I never finished high school and even then I wasn't all that good at it. I just wrote the GED and then I applied for college as a non-traditional student, so, um... I'm not really sure how to do this studying thing. Zeke'll tell you."

Actually, Zeke sometimes wondered if she was really as insecure about her academic ability as she acted. He didn't know what mark she had gotten on her paper; he never did read through it, although they had talked about it several times.

He knew quite a bit about her, probably a lot more than she knew about him because of her tendency to just spill information unsolicited. He knew that had she dropped out of high school at sixteen because she had gotten pregnant. He knew that her mother was Aboriginal, from a reserve community near Victoria called Esquimalt, but had raised Winona in Vancouver. Winona's son was twelve and living there right now with his grandmother while Winona went to school. She hadn't said why she had chosen to go to school in Seattle and drive to Vancouver every weekend to see her kid, but he expected that she would blurt that out to him sooner or later.

She was an interesting person, and he found that he enjoyed hanging out with her. It probably didn't hurt that she was looking to him as her academic guru. He wasn't above enjoying that kind of ego-stroking — except she really should be firing him right about now. He couldn't figure out why he hadn't consulted Casey for academic mentoring in the first place. He remembered seeing a few odd expressions cross Casey's face while typing Zeke's paper, and instead of following up on those, Zeke had chosen to fall back on the techniques that had served him adequately in high school. He hadn't asked anyone their opinion about anything back then.

Casey answered Winona while looking at a spot on the floor. "Did the teacher give you any information about the mid-term?" he asked.

"Just that it's on everything up to last Friday."

"Okay, well, I'd... what I'd do is get all my notes together and make a study sheet with all the important factoids and formulas — um, all the terms. Try and get it all on one page, both sides."

"I'll never be able to do that, there's too much."

"You can write really small... and by the time you get it down to that, you would have soaked up a lot of stuff. The study sheet is just like the... the highlights. If you remember what's on that page, the rest of the stuff in your head comes with it." He peered at Zeke and said playfully, "Of course it depends on having thorough notes."

"I don't know what you're implying," Zeke said, putting his nose in the air.

"That you don't take notes," Winona said, with a grin. "He's right... you hardly ever write anything down."

"I know I'll remember it."

She retorted, "Then you don't need to study, do you?"

"I do need to study," Zeke sighed. "Okay... can I borrow your notes, just for this time, Winona?"

"Of course." Winona marched purposefully to the kitchen table and sat. "I'm going to try what you said, Casey. Thanks."

Winona and Zeke sat down together and started putting together their notes, while Casey escaped to the bedroom. Zeke tried to focus on the studying rather than the tantalizing correlation of Casey and bed. He had to be honest with himself and admit that he had always been scornful of practitioners of school like Casey, people who made the effort to be thorough in their attendance and note-taking and homework. For him it had been enough to show up on occasion and hand things in on time — but again, that was high school. He needed to adjust to this new environment, do things a little bit different. Be like Casey would be his new mantra.

After forty-five minutes of shuffling papers and comparing notes, he decided it was time for a break. While Winona poured herself another cup of coffee, he took his "C" paper — titled, very cleverly in his opinion, "What Species Are You, Aristotle?" — and snuck down the hall to the bedroom. The door was half-closed; a bit tentatively, he pushed it all the way open, hoping that Casey was not asleep. He wasn't; he was propped against the pillows with an open book in front of him, but his eyes were fixed on a spot on the wall.

"Hey," Zeke said softly. "Hey, Case."

There was no sound, no movement from the figure on the bed.

"Case."

Casey turned slowly at him, blinking, licking his lips once like he was thirsty.

"What should we eat?" Zeke asked, for something to say.

Casey shrugged. Over the past few weeks Sasha had made some progress in transferring some of his less arcane cooking know-how to his two roommates. So far, Casey had mastered soup and sandwiches, including grilled cheese, plus Kraft dinner and frozen entrees. Zeke was good with canned tomatoes and pasta, and he could roast a chicken, but he didn't feel like doing any cooking now.

"Why don't we go across the street?" he suggested.

Across the street meant the Bayview Diner, where Zeke had rapidly become a fixture. He no longer mourned the loss of the Jam, in fact. The menu at the Bayview was bigger, and the food was better. And of course, the Bayview totally had the not-being-in- Herrington vibe going for it.

"We?" Casey said.

"You, me, Winona... Stokes, when she gets here."

Casey put the book facedown on his lap and clasped his hands over it. Zeke waited for the protest, the I'm tired — which, to be fair, he undoubtedly was. Casey was out on the edge of what he could handle every day, walking to his appointments, enduring whatever went on in those sessions, and when he wasn't doing that he was often doing his own homework, writing in his journal, doing his assigned readings, or engaging in some activity that Sasha might have scheduled for him, such as the cooking lessons. It was hardly surprising that by evening he wouldn't be up to doing anything except lounging at home with Zeke.

"Okay," Casey agreed, taking Zeke completely by surprise yet again. "When Stokes is ready."

"You hungry?"

"Getting there."

"Case..." Zeke stepped fully into the room. "I need to ask you something."

"Yeah?"

Zeke raised the paper in his hand and gestured in Casey's direction with it. "Will you read my essay and critique it?"

Casey's hands opened and closed, grasping his book tightly. "Didn't the professor... ?"

"No. Just his comment at the end. I want you to be brutal, Case."

"Um..."

"I can take it."

"I wouldn't know if the... the philosophy part was right or not."

"That's okay, I'm more concerned with the structure."

"And, um... science papers are pretty much straight facts. There isn't room for a lot of creativity."

"It's okay. I need to work on my structure more than my creativity."

Casey offered up a wan smile. "You want to be boring like me?"

Zeke put the paper down on the bed and placed one knee in close proximity to it. He leaned over and down. "You," he said, his lips just barely brushing Casey's, "Are the opposite of boring. You're the essential form of Not Boring."

He let his mouth deepen into Casey's, feeling the smile building there. The temptation to pounce was severe, but he made himself pull back. From where he was hovering, just above Casey's face, he discovered eyes glistening with some emotion that eluded definition.

"What's this?" Zeke murmured, stroking a cheekbone with his thumb. "What's going on?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing, huh?" Keeping his hand as it was, Zeke stole another taste of Casey's mouth. "Nothing to worry about right now?" he suggested.

"Nothing... to worry about right now."

"I think you're worn out. We could go to the Bayview and bring something back — "

"No!" Casey broke in, trembling. "No."

"Okay." Zeke chose not to notice the extremity of that reaction. He stepped back, removing himself from the bed. "I'm going to go bury my head in my books for a little while longer. And, um... about the paper... Don't hold back, okay?"

Right in front of his eyes, Casey was struggling to bring the intensity down. "Right... Do — do we have a red pen?"

Zeke looked quickly at him, saw a faint curve on his lips amidst the strained voice and slightly wild expression. He went with the smile. "Very funny, Professor."

"The red will give you more of a scare."

"I don't think that'll be a problem."

Casey dropped his voice to a husky pout. "But I need something big, fat and red in my hand."

That should have been a joke but Zeke knew it wasn't. He said, "I'll get you a marker for next time." Casey blinked at him with slightly disoriented, bloodshot eyes, and Zeke just had to lower his head for one more, one very soft kiss that wasn't nearly adequate to administer what Casey needed from him right then.

Backing away, Zeke said, "Gotta get back to work. Don't fall asleep, Case."

Casey waved Zeke's paper. "I have this to keep me going."

"And I say again... Don't fall asleep."

At the table, Winona had collected all of her notes and was already scribbling on some notepaper. Zeke sat down and tried to follow suit, but it seemed that she had neglected to write down certain important points. He had to turn continually to his textbook to fill in the blanks, and then of course he would share the information with her. For an hour or so, the mood in the apartment was very studious, until it was broken by the ringing of the doorbell. Zeke was desperate for a longer break by then; he bounced up to answer it, expecting Stokely, but what he found was Stokely and Charly.

His first instinct was to slam the door, which he successfully resisted.

"Hi, Zeke," Charly said. From her professional garb, she must have come straight from the newspaper. "I hope you don't mind me just dropping in. I stopped by to see Stokely after work and she mentioned she was expected here... so I thought I would just come along and say hi."

Stokely was staring pleadingly at him, wanting him to be gracious. He reminded himself that Charly hadn't really done anything to harm them, apart from that initial, disastrous introduction. She had helped him when he asked, and if she had some kind of ulterior motive, she wasn't pressing it. In fact, he hadn't seen her since the day he met her for lunch to ask about a doctor for Casey. He had spoken on the phone to her a few times, when he called her house for Stan, but that was it. And since it appeared that she and Stokely were still close despite the breakup with Stan... Zeke could be a grown-up about this.

"Charly," he acknowledged. "How are you?"

"Pretty well. Never did get to have you guys over. I thought I might try again, actually."

"That might be doable," Zeke said, folding his arms. He figured that was a shade more polite than "It depends."

Charly's eyes moved to a space behind Zeke. "Hello, Casey," she said.

Zeke turned at the same time as everyone else. He noted Casey was holding Zeke's paper in his hand and he was blinking fast, like he was trying to take in what his eyes were communicating and having trouble. He didn't respond to Charly's greeting.

"I enjoyed meeting your parents last month," she went on, unfazed.

Casey was a slight presence at Zeke's shoulder now, a faint warmth. To Zeke's shock, the presence began to talk. "They... they said they had a good time," Casey said.

"I'm glad to hear that." Charly shifted her weight. "It's too bad you couldn't be there."

"Sorry — "

"No, I understand. Things happen. I just wanted to stop in and ask if maybe we could reschedule. I'll make it a Sunday or Monday this time so your friend can come. How about it?"

Zeke waited for Casey to let him know which way they were leaning on that.

"Sure," Casey said.

Both Stokely and Charly looked surprised. Charly recovered quickly and said, "Good, good. Do you like Indian food?"

"I think so."

"Thai?"

"I..."

"How about Japanese?"

"Um... dunno."

From that response, Zeke knew that Casey was getting ready to abdicate on the conversation. He rescued him with, "Sasha has probably fed him just about anything exotic that you can think of."

"Zeke?" Charly said. "How about you?"

"I'm not picky. Whatever is fine with me."

"Okay, then." Charly smiled. "I'll call when I get a date sorted out."

"Sure."

There was a small, slightly awkward silence.

"Well," Charly said, "I'll be on my way. Nice to see you guys."

She let herself out. It was neat, tidy, there had been no outbursts or comments that set off any alarms. Zeke felt Casey's hand sliding quietly under his elbow; he unfolded his arms and grasped that hand. He indicated the paper in Casey's other hand. "Are you done with that?"

Casey nodded, putting it gently on the table, just within arm's reach. Zeke decided he didn't want to look at it just yet. Winona, he noted, was still sitting in her chair at the table, looking very interested in everything.

Stokely was visibly apologetic. "She just showed up, Zeke."

"It's fine," he said, meaning it.

"You were reasonably friendly, too. Thank you."

Winona had popped up beside him. "Hi," she said. "I'm Winona." She offered a hand to shake, which struck Zeke as odd for some reason. "Love your shirt," she told Stokely.

The shirt was hippyish, long-sleeved, predominantly red with some colourful, abstract embroidery in shades of orange and gold. It was a tad heavier than the gauzy things she had been wearing in early September, and already so familiar to Zeke that he had stopped noticing it, much like the denim skirt she was wearing. Stokes did not have an extensive wardrobe; once the major bills were paid, there probably wasn't very much left for extras like clothing.

"Thanks," she replied. "So what are we doing?"

"Going to the Bayview."

"Oh, Zeke!" Stokes protested. "I'm really broke."

"Don't worry about it." Zeke waved off Stokes' frown. "Let's go, I'm hungry."

"Jah, mein Fuehrer."

"Hey, I'm offering to take you for supper here. Would you rather stay here and eat what Casey and I can cook?"

"You have a point." Stokes' expression was pure horror. "Come on, Case. Let's go ahead of them so we don't all trip over each other here."

Casey nodded and let go of Zeke's hand so he could get ready to go out. Zeke stayed where he was and watched. He watched as Casey put on his running shoes, worming his feet in without bending over or untying them. He watched Casey put on his favourite fleece over the mock turtleneck and heavy knit shirt he was already wearing, then wound a striped scarf around his neck for good measure.

"Warm enough?" Stokes asked Casey.

"No," he replied sombrely.

"You'd think it was cold outside."

"It is cold."

"I think that your thermostat is a little off, Case."

Maybe it wasn't cold, but it was damp. It seemed to Zeke that somewhere around the first of October, a permanent, grey canopy had fallen over Seattle, squeezing out some mist and drizzle on a daily basis. The "rainy season," he had been told. Even when it wasn't raining, it was grey. Zeke thought the sun had been out a day here or there, but it was difficult to remember. He expected that he was going to be missing a clean fall of snow before long.

The front door flapped; Casey followed Stokely out. Zeke heard Stokely's voice receding as she descended the stairs. Winona was casually putting on her long overcoat. She looked both amused and pained.

"What?" Zeke asked.

"I have a feeling somebody doesn't like me."

"Oh, he just doesn't know you."

Winona was shaking her head. "It's not just that. If it helps... no offence, but as hot as you are, you don't really do it for me."

He smiled. "None taken."

"Plus I'm dating a guy already — tell Casey that, okay?"

"If it comes up," Zeke assured her

 

"So this... person... comes in and right away I can tell he hasn't had a shower in about a year. He was about six feet tall and three hundred pounds and he wants to know if we're going to have separate refrigerators!"

Winona groaned loudly. Stokely looked to Casey for some response and he forced a bit of a smile. The epic saga of Stokely's quest for the perfect roommate was certainly entertaining, but he was very much distracted by Zeke's leg that was temptingly pressed against his. And then there was the matter of a large quantity of liver still on his plate. It was drenched with ketchup and onions and bacon but it still smelled and tasted like a chemical processing plant.

Zeke had been making him eat this crap at least once a week. It should have been enough that he frequently ate oatmeal for breakfast and that Sasha was constantly serving him meals with broccoli or spinach as a side dish. They had been eating a fair amount of beef, too. Casey didn't object to any of that, and much to his relief, he wasn't having the adverse reaction to the iron pills that Dr. Chakri had warned him about. His last blood test had shown an improvement — but it wasn't enough for Zeke. Until they got the word that Casey's iron absorption was in the normal range, Zeke would keep "suggesting" that he order liver. Casey had known what was coming when Zeke proposed the diner for supper; he didn't bother to wait for the "suggestion".

"And that was the best of the lot," Stokely grumbled. "Now I have obscene phone calls and no roommate."

"You're lucky," Winona said. "I have a roommate. We've lived together for less than two months and I already hate her. I hate the way she breathes and the way she hides all the dirty dishes in the sink like she thinks we can pretend they're not there and... like... like... what's with the damned soy milk and the way she walks all over the floor with her boots on?"

And the roommate probably hated Winona right back with her gotta-use-the- curling-iron-every-day-bring-on-the-hairspray and her painted claws and her over-loud laugh and her crisp white cotton blouses and high cut jeans. Someone should tell Winona that the eighties had come and gone and why the fuck should she feel the need to pay tribute to them? She would have barely reached her teenage years when that decade ended.

Casey sawed off a piece of liver and chewed it without conviction, trying not to taste it. He stared longingly at Zeke's hamburger and fries.

"Um, Case?" Stokes said. "Are you in love with Zeke's food?"

"I might be," he answered.

"Well, why'd you order that, then?" Stokely shuddered. "That's an internal organ you're eating."

"You're not helping, Stokes," Zeke said.

"I'm sorry, but it's disgusting."

"It's good for him."

"Fine, but you're not the one who has to choke it down."

"I would. I don't mind liver."

"Why don't you two trade, then?" Winona suggested, eliciting a glare from Zeke.

Maybe she had thought she could earn a few points with Casey, which wasn't fucking going to happen. Every time she asked Zeke a question she did this thing with her eyes, making them widen just slightly in a subtle suggestion that she was overcome with awe. And all her comments seemed designed to let Zeke showcase his brains or his muscles. Zeke didn't seem to notice that, or maybe he just liked it too much to care.

"I can't eat that now," Zeke said. "It's covered in ketchup."

"So's the burger," Winona said.

"That's different. Ketchup belongs on hamburgers and hotdogs."

"Not fries?"

"Nope, I just like my fries with salt."

"You know what we do in Canada? Vinegar. And sometimes mayonnaise."

"Yuck. I hate soggy fries."

"You know that chip wagon that always sits outside the HUB? Awesome fries. And the sliders... nothing but a fatty wiener and smashed-up old bun but it's just so good..."

"Do you mind?" Stokely interrupted. "Some of us are trying to eat our organ meat."

"Oh." Winona did a fine job of looking regretful. "Sorry. I feel for you, Casey. I hate liver too."

"Okay, I'll switch — " Zeke abruptly grabbed at Casey's plate, while lifting his own in the air.

Casey held onto his platter of liver with both hands. "No, I'll eat it."

"You don't have to," Zeke grunted.

He sounded like he was getting mad, so Casey let go of his plate. As a direct consequence, Zeke suddenly lost control of his momentum; his elbow ran into his glass of water, spilling it all over Winona. She jumped off her chair like she was stuck with a hot poker, brushing at her lap with both hands.

"I'm sorry!" Casey said at the same time as Zeke.

"Did it get you?" Zeke added.

"No, mostly just my sandwich," she said, still brushing her thighs. There were a couple of large splotches.

Getting a waiter over to wipe the table and have Winona's sodden dinner replaced was something of a production. Meanwhile, Winona made a trip to the bathroom, in an attempt to dry herself off a bit.

She returned a few minutes later, smiling ruefully, and sat down with a bit of a shrug. She didn't seem upset, but when Casey chanced a look at her, she seemed to be watching him. Wimp, her look said. Sickly little wimp, everything has to be about you, doesn't it? Well, I'm going to take him away from that. You won't know what hit you because I'm going to get you... I'm going to get you... Going to get you, my pretty... and your little dog too. Okay, he didn't have a dog and she lacked the pointy nose and the pointy hat. And... all that water and she hadn't melted. Completely intact. Not melting at all. Oh, how he would have liked to see that... Winona slowly deflating, becoming a puddle of squish on the floor while moaning I'm melting... melting... ohhhh... arghhh... my beautiful wickedness...

Casey slumped into his corner of the booth and wondered what they would think if he started giggling to himself... Shit, he was giggling.

"Casey," Zeke said worriedly.

"Sorry," he said, swallowing the next wave. "I'm just tired... I get loopy... f-fruit loopy."

Zeke switched their plates this time without any fuss. "Here, eat this."

"Yes-s-s, mas-s-ter," he slurred, doing his best impersonation of Renfield, Dracula's hunched up sidekick. He broke into another long giggle and soon Stokely had joined in. Zeke put a hand on his knee but he noticed that even in profile Zeke was visibly struggling not to smile.

Winona was smiling too, but just a bit and not very mirthfully.

Casey clapped a hand over his mouth to restrain himself while Stokely, warned by Zeke's attempts to keep a straight face, mashed her lips together and stared up at the ceiling. "Sorry," she said, laughter straining behind her words. "Sorry... I can't help it. My brother always used to get me going at the dinner table. I didn't even know what I was laughing at, we would just look at each other and that was it." She lowered her head, having forced her face to smooth out and said, "So, Winona. I understand that you're helping Zeke to be scholarly."

"More like he's helping me," Winona said.

"Really?" Stokely raised a brow and whispered at Zeke, "Keener."

"Not much," Zeke corrected. He took his hand off of Casey's knee. "I just got my first mark back and it was no screaming hell."

"I think it's just that you have a lot going on and you were in a rush," Winona told him, doing that thing with her eyes. "You just totally get this stuff, though."

Zeke shrugged. "Apparently that's not enough."

"I'll bet you ace the mid-term."

Casey didn't feel quite so tempted by that hamburger anymore, and of course Zeke noticed. "Case," he said. "I sacrificed my burger for you."

"Not hungry."

"Come on... Cold fries suck."

"You eat them, then," Casey snapped. "They're yours anyway." It happened now, him saying these things that he couldn't stop and the more he resolved to be silent, the more it happened. Loathing himself for what he said even as he said it, he still couldn't stop himself — and then once it was out there, he would at last be silenced by his own wretchedness.

Thank fucking god that Zeke was good at ignoring him; without a word, Zeke just reached over and selected a fry. Casey heard him chew, felt that potent hand back on his leg. "They're really pretty good," Zeke mused, then shifted to wave to the waiter with his other hand. "Can you pack this up to go?"

"Sure," said the waiter, Sasha's Italian dish whose actual name was Sonny. Casey wondered if his parents had consciously named him after the character in The Godfather, or was the character in the godfather named Sonny because lots of Italian males had that name? He wondered if Zeke had ever seen that movie, and maybe this weekend they could spend an entire day on the couch, cuddling and watching Coppola and Scorcese. Zeke would like that. Real men always liked Coppola and Scorcese.

"Case? Come on, we're outa here."

Zeke held his hand on the way home, caressing it with his thumb as he often did when he wanted to convey that extra little bit of strength. The touch went right to Casey's crotch and he began to speculate on what time everyone would be leaving.

"You up for another hour or so?" Winona said to Zeke when the four of them came in the front door and confronted the books laid out on the table. The apartment smelled of burned coffee.

"I suppose," Zeke hedged, and stroked Casey's palm one more time before he let go and trudged back to his books.

"Do you mind if I pour myself another coffee?" Winona asked.

Zeke shrugged. "You don't actually want to drink that."

"Sure I do."

"Ugh... help yourself."

Stokely and Casey were still just inside the door, not sure where they should go. "I guess watching TV is out," Stokely said.

On her way to the coffee pot, Winona suggested mildly, "Zeke and I could go study in the bedroom."

Casey caught her eye as she was passing. Her look was steady, daring him to hear something inflammatory in an innocent suggestion. He said, "Stokes and me... we'll go in the bedroom."

"I have an idea," said Stokes brightly. "Let's go to a movie."

Casey couldn't quite hold back his sigh of regret. "No."

"Well, it was worth a shot. How about a walk?"

"No."

"Just a little one?"

"No."

She wasn't fazed. "Then let's go up on the roof."

"It's freezing," he protested.

"Actually, technically it's not."

"It's cold, then."

"You should be warm enough with all those clothes on."

He surrendered. "Okay, okay!"

Zeke frowned, appearing slightly alarmed. "It's pretty wet up there," he said.

"So we'll bring paper towels," Stokely retorted. "Give it a rest, Zeke."

Zeke didn't say anything. Casey could feel Winona's eyes on him, considering his layers of clothes, his anemic face, thin body, spindly limbs. Wondering what Zeke could possibly want with any of it.

He and Stokely tramped up the stairs and, after patting the chairs dry, sat down. They both automatically slouched down in the chairs and gazed up at the heavens, but the only thing that Casey could envision was the tableau down the stairs: Winona and Zeke at their studies sitting close together, close enough for any kind of flirting disguised as a casual touch, for accidental bumping of knees and foot manoeuvres.

Stokes kept her voice low, saying, "I don't think you have anything to worry about, Case."

He stiffened up in the chair. Was Stokely actually blind? Did she not notice the eye-batting and the ego-pandering that was going on? At the very least she had to see that Winona disliked him and that wasn't low self-esteem talking, it wasn't his imagination. He could tell when people disliked him; he'd had plenty of practice at it.

Stokely added, "She's not bad... even if she did diss soy milk."

"She kept looking at me..."

Stokely snickered. He sat up straight and focussed on her, trying to comprehend her reaction. "It's not funny," he said.

"Case, I'm not... really, it's just that, um... you've gotta realize that people are going to look at you sometimes."

"That's what Sasha says too... but it wasn't just looking."

"Well, what was it?"

"I dunno, she was... looking..." looking, carving him up with those razor- sharp, blue-grey eyes... watching him, wanting him to disappear forever, getting ready to make him disappear.

His hands gripped cold, hard plastic tight enough that the edges of it cut into his palms. The temporal order was clicking up to high gear while the sphere above him started to spin like some astronomer's bad dream.

Stokely's voice startled him and held him anchored to the roof with a simple, "I see." He jerked his head in her direction, swallowing convulsively. She was oblivious, calmly tucking her hands inside her sleeves. "I'll bet she was just curious to meet this person who's got Zeke wrapped around his finger. And anyway, it doesn't matter what she thinks, or if she's got the hots for Zeke, because he's completely fixated on you. You get that, right?"

"I guess, I..."

"Believe it, Case. It's totally obvious to everyone else." She saw him shivering. "You warm enough?"

"Yeah."

"You look cold."

"Little bit." His teeth chattered and his voice was a heavy, unwieldy thing. "D - don't like having her here."

Stokes made a shushing gesture.

"D-don't like anyone... here... except Zeke and Sasha... and you... and S-Stan, sometimes."

"You got used to Jerry, didn't you?"

Sure, but she didn't realize that Jerry was still a risk. Casey could play along, he would act the part because Sasha liked Jerry — a factor strongly in his favour. Sasha could be wrong about Jerry, of course, there was nothing Casey could do about that... but that woman with the watching eyes, you couldn't trust her. She wanted what she wanted and she would take what she wanted. She wasn't what she seemed at all.

"Casey."

He blinked rapidly, trying to make the objects around him stay put. "Stokes..."

She had sat up, right on the edge of her chair. "Are you okay?"

He nodded, hanging on the sight of her to keep from falling over the edge of things into nothing. "I'm... good... I'm okay."

Stokely said nothing, waiting for him to prove it.

He let out a shuddery breath. "I don't mean to — to do that."

"Of course not!"

"You probably think I save it for when — just when you're around."

Stokely laughed, a bit too bright, too high. "Trying to keep me on my toes."

"It's not like this all the time." For some reason, it felt important that she knew that.

"No, I know that... actually, you amaze me, Case. You've been working so hard. I don't think I could do it."

The crazed feeling was sliding back, leaving just screeching nerves. He said, "I wish she didn't have to be here. She doesn't belong here."

Stokely cleared her throat. "Let's change the subject, okay? Do you guys have any plans for Halloween?"

"When's that?"

"October thirty-first?"

"I mean... I don't even know what date it is today."

"Today's the twenty-seventh. Sunday is Halloween."

"Oh. Okay."

"The last couple of years Stan and I would get dressed up to give out candy. Last year we were Sonny and Cher." Stokely fell into a contemplative silence for a bit, then asked, "Have you guys seen Stan lately?"

"Um... he and Zeke went for beer, and... they've been playing squash."

"What about you and Stan?"

"I make Stan uncomfortable."

Something sharp hacked through Stokely's friendly tones. "He's supposed to be getting over that."

Casey shrugged. "We just don't have much to talk about. We never did."

"Hey, you and Stan should play squash."

"Oh, right."

"I'm serious. I'll bet you'd like it."

"Dunno... most days I don't have enough energy as it is."

They fell into a companionable silence; Casey tilted his head and really looked at the sky this time. Happily, there was something up there to see. While the days were mostly overcast, at night the clouds might break up a bit and reveal chunks of night sky, and with tonight's full moon half-peering from behind the banks of cloud, the effect was dramatic. There were no visible stars, of course, but the air held a fresh, just-rained scent and Casey was suddenly glad that Stokely had suggested this, stars or no stars. He said, "This was a good idea."

"I know," she replied.

It took a while, maybe an hour, but the damp did soak into him. It had started to drizzle again, just a little, and when he started to actively tremble, Stokely decreed that they should go back down.

Winona had already left. Zeke was sitting at the table alone, reading his paper with Casey's scribbled comments. The chills disturbing Casey's body deepened into something worse. He had used a pencil, but liberally and he shouldn't have done that, he shouldn't have written those things... stupid, stupid, he wasn't a professor, he wasn't even a student anymore, he had just let himself get carried away because he missed that old academic feeling. Be brutal, Zeke said, but he probably didn't really mean be brutal he probably meant something more like be judiciously constructive.

Zeke got up at their return and without a word began to remove Casey's scarf from around his neck, unhurried. "You're shaking," he said. "You were up there too long."

Casey was searching Zeke's face for signs of anger and didn't remember to answer.

"It's nice up there," Stokes supplied. "Damp but nice."

Zeke dropped Casey's scarf onto the floor and reached for the zipper on his fleece, pulling it down halfway, then tugging it back up, a faint grin playing at the corners of his mouth. No, he didn't look angry, not this time, but Casey needed to have him alone to be sure. Casey kicked himself for not venturing down the stairs earlier... if he had, he could have been alone with Zeke for whole minutes already.

Someone said, "Hello? Stokely is in the room."

Zeke cleared his throat, letting go of the zipper for now. He half-turned and said, as though surprised, "Oh, hi! Didn't see you standing there."

"Yeah... I'm going to head home."

"No rush," Zeke said. He slid an arm around Casey's shoulders while he adjusted his stance to give his full attention to Stokely.

"I think there is," she snorted. She opened their door. "Thanks for supper, Zeke."

"Don't mention it."

"Well, still... thanks. And Case? Don't forget about that thing I asked you."

"Which — ?" She was talking about the part-time job that made him shiver harder just to contemplate as the vaguest possibility. "Oh. Right."

"Good night, guys."

Zeke watched Stokely's exit and the moment the door shut behind her, he asked, "What thing?"

Casey tried for a shrug. "Nothing."

Zeke didn't react in any way that most people would notice. He pivoted again so that he and Casey were face to face, and began to fiddle once more with Casey's collar. "Nothing," he echoed. "Is it some kind of secret?"

"No." He didn't know why he felt reluctant to speak of it; it wasn't something that Casey even wanted to do. There was just the feeling that it was something he should do — to make his dad happy, to have some money of his own. Well, Zeke would find out at some point anyway, so he might as well confess. "Stokely asked me if I wanted a job downstairs."

"Doing what? For how long?"

"Stocking shelves for an hour or two a day."

"Hmm."

That seemed to be all Zeke was going to say on the subject — for now. Meanwhile, his hands were still on the move. His thumb traced Casey's lower lip. His fingers were burning against Casey's cold skin. Casey angled his head, resting his cheek in Zeke's hand with its scalding heat.

"You know what I was thinking?" Zeke murmured.

"What?"

Zeke's hands slipped back to Casey's zipper, and this time lowered it completely. A finger began to trace a single line from the edge of Casey's jaw, down Casey's throat to his collarbone as Zeke said, "I love your brain."

Casey registered conflicting demands on his attention. "I..." he faltered, trying to switch gears.

"Why didn't you tell me what you thought before? About the paper?"

"Didn't want you to get angry."

Zeke smiled, reassuring with his face as much as his voice. "I'm not angry now. Well, I am angry — at myself. I thought writing a paper would be a breeze. But apparently, I can't write."

"That's not — I never said — "

"Hey." Zeke's hands settled on Casey's shoulders. "Calm down. I was exaggerating, no one said I can't write. Certainly not you. All of your comments were very helpful."

"I-In your paper, all the... things... are there, it's just... well, like the professor said."

"You can do better than that, Case." Zeke squeezed his shoulder and said, "Tell you what. Let's go in the bedroom and I'll warm you up while we talk about it."

Casey nodded. By the time they had walked the short distance down the hallway to their room, he could think more clearly. Zeke positioned himself on the side of the bed. Casey stripped off two layers, leaving just his t-shirt, dropping the other clothes on the floor. He could feel Zeke's eyes, as real and as hot as his hands.

"Go on," Zeke said.

"Um... what?"

"Tell me about how I write."

It might be best to keep some distance between them for the moment. Standing in the middle of the room, Casey said, "Um... I don't know this stuff... a lot of what you wrote is okay, I mean — you can spell and write complete sentences and you seem to understand what you're writing about... except you don't explain things."

"Uh-huh."

"You... you need to pretend your reader is completely ignorant of the topic, even though it is actually a professor reading it. You should explain every term and make sure every sentence connects... but you assumed a lot."

"Hmm."

"Don't be mad."

"I'm not, Case, I'm not... I'm grateful." Zeke beckoned to him. "Come here?"

Casey went willingly, coming to stand between Zeke's knees, letting himself be drawn in against a broad, warm chest. "Shit, you're cold, " Zeke said. "Why'd you have to go outside?"

"Just... didn't want to be in the way."

Zeke stroked his back in wide, soothing sweeps of his hands. "You weren't in the way."

"Yeah... I was."

"Wrong. You're never in the way, Case. I want to give you all of my attention when we're together, it was just that I needed to get some studying done tonight. Winona helped me get caught up, which I needed. It wasn't so terrible, having her here, was it?"

"No..."

"And, you know... Winona's absolutely no threat to you."

Casey's heart stuttered. He had never said a word about his fears, but of course Zeke had known all along and now he was talking about it right in the open, putting it out there like it was just a minor glitch to be smoothed over. "I... I..." he stumbled.

"We're just friends... and she says she's dating someone."

He couldn't speak for feeling. He had been caught at something and now he wasn't supposed to do it anymore, he wasn't supposed to give Winona another thought even though the danger was greater than ever and he had to try to hide it from Zeke, who was very adept at seeing through him. "Oh," was his very feeble response.

"She made a point of telling me she has no interest in me and I've made it clear that I have no interest in her, that way." Zeke said it gently and firmly, like he expected this to be the end of the matter. "Do you believe me?"

If he thought he had a chance of pulling off a lie right now, he would have tried it. He couldn't say the truth either, so he said nothing.

"Casey," Zeke said. "Don't you trust me?"

"Yes."

"Then how... how can some woman even be an issue when I have zero interest in anyone except you?"

Just call me Borderline Boy, Casey cackled to himself. How convenient to have a label for that particular way that he was fucked over. It was all in the shrink's Big Book of Diagnoses how he couldn't really understand trust, that he couldn't have faith that Zeke's very evident feelings for him would still exist tomorrow. It could be from his wiring, or it was a legacy of trauma like the shrink said... or it was two years of waiting... waiting for a person while that person was out having wine and canapes and dutiful sex with the enemy even though that person was supposedly obsessed with him.

It could be that maybe, just maybe, the enemy was back and the book didn't have the whole story.

He slid onto Zeke's knee, winding his arms around him, nuzzling his neck. "Show me," he whispered. "Please show me."

Zeke sighed quietly. "I'm always showing you." But the words were less a complaint than a reminder and he was doing as Casey asked, turning them both and laying them back on the bed. Now he was holding Casey down lightly, rubbing open palms over his. Very little of Zeke's weight was on him and so it was as though Zeke could float and hover, with a gaze that was capable of expanding to encompass and hold all of him.

"She does want you," Casey said. He heard his voice ready to shatter. "I could tell."

In answer, Zeke bent down and kissed him, easing and smoothing a strangle of withheld tears in his throat. His fingers crawled inside Casey's palm, tickling. "How do you know that?" he asked, still so quiet. There was a hard bulge in Zeke's pants pressing heavy into Casey's own arousal.

Casey shivered, a full bodily shiver. He arched up against Zeke slowly and whispered, "She looks hungry."

"I hadn't noticed."

"You..." Casey started, and gave up when Zeke rubbed against him. "You... oh..."

Zeke's fingers laced into his, gripping hard enough to stop his blood but he was gripping back just as hard as Zeke's mouth descended and his tongue probed, tasting deep, and then Zeke pulled away, sucking a gasp out of him, falling aside so they were both lying there wrongways on the bed. For a while they were just there like that, almost nose to nose. Zeke's hand moved to trace his features; Casey put his own on top of it, shadowing it as it caressed his skin, played with his hair, then began to slip lower. All the while Zeke's eyes were in Casey's, seeking something that Casey was pretty sure he didn't have in him. Wherever he tried to go, Zeke's eyes followed.

He needed a diversion: Moving his hand to the button on Zeke's jeans, unfastening it, and the zipper; slipping his hand inside and grasping the hard, hot shaft there, freeing it from the confines of cotton and denim. Two smooth strokes, and Zeke's eyes shuddered, finally breaking away while Zeke yearned into his hand. A few more, and Casey let go of Zeke, leaving him gasping.

Casey sat up and began to yank off his t-shirt but Zeke reached to stop him. Okay, fine, sometimes Zeke wanted to undress him, and that didn't have to slow them down. Clothes could fly off haphazardly and quickly, no art to it at all but only haste to get skin against skin.

"Well?" Casey said, his voice hoarse with need. He couldn't do long and slow now, he was too wound up for any kind of finesse and Zeke had to hear it, he had to know.

Zeke smiled and didn't look happy. "What's the rush?"

"I..." Didn't Zeke know that he was all about what was going to happen in the next few minutes? He would beg for it, he was without pride, desperate. Sometimes he could barely think with wanting, he would stomp and push aside anything that got in the way including his own occasional tremors of terror that came from somehow and nowhere and nowhen, that didn't exist actually. "I just... need you."

"Okay," Zeke said. "Sorry... it's... I like looking at you."

Casey let Zeke remove his shirt for him and he did the same for Zeke; then they stood up to strip the remainder of their clothes on their own. As he got out of his pants, Casey saw Zeke's eyes checking him out, assessing his level of physical arousal. It was important to Zeke that his passion be subject to certain ethical standards, and that was okay. Casey wasn't going to complain if it made Zeke happy to stare at his crotch to make sure that he was acceptably erect when they started. He wasn't going to mention that it hardly mattered one way or another to him; maybe sometimes he would be a late starter but it wouldn't make it any less pleasurable in the end.

Nothing to worry about this time, though. He was rock hard, his body aching for some escape from its tension. He stepped closer to Zeke, trailing his hand lazily from nipple to cock while he whispered, "Fuck me now?" Those words, or some variation on the same theme, always had a gratifying effect on Zeke. Zeke would be emptied of nearly everything but want, almost out of control, almost ready to toss ethics in the garbage.

Zeke started to rummage through the bedside table. Lube, condom... Casey had tested negative but they still had to be careful until they were in the clear. Casey tore open the condom package and rolled it onto Zeke's erection. He massaged lubricant on to it, watching Zeke's face as he did... cataloguing the expressions that went from helplessness to a kind of violence that Zeke managed to contain and mete out just enough to satisfy.

Casey scrambled up onto the bed on his knees and bent over, resting on his elbows. It was not Zeke's preference, this position, but it was Casey's. This way, they could achieve a depth of penetration that was challenging any other way, and with the difference in their height Zeke could fold himself along Casey's back and have him almost entirely encompassed while he plunged into his body.

"Do me," he urged Zeke, panting. "Do it to me, now... do it, please!"

"Shh..." Zeke ran a hand up his spine and then down and settled on his hips, both hands gripping him now, parting his cheeks and he thought with a teacher's pride that Zeke was so much more confident about this than when he started. There had been worries about pain, and tearing and bleeding, and didn't there always have to be stretching... Casey had, over the weeks, gotten him to understand what was required and what was not required, and when.

Like right now a bit of lubricant and the will to enter was all that was needed. A smooth, powerful thrust filled Casey and he clutched two handfuls of unmade quilt and sheets, crying a noise into the fabric while Zeke folded his powerful torso over Casey, painting himself sweet-hot on Casey's back.

"Move," Casey whispered, because right then Zeke's cock felt like a stick of heated granite shoved inside him but if Zeke would just move it would all get better, it would be okay.

"Wait," Zeke breathed, somewhere near the nape of Casey's neck.

One hand groped around to Casey's chest, stroking it, playing with a nipple while the other found his flagging erection and renewed it. That was good, oh yes, that worked... electrified, he thrust back, slamming into Zeke's groin, squeezing his muscles around Zeke. The hand over his breast fell away, going flat onto the bed to brace them.

"Oh, fuck... fuck!"

Yes, Casey mused to himself. Fuck. Any time now would be good.

Then Zeke was moving, both hands gripping Casey's hips now to keep him upright as the rest of his body collapsed flat. And soon it was white, white, white, nothing in his head except hammering pleasure... the funny looks and the tense, unhappy conversations and skin-crawling from home to where he had to go and back and the clenched muscles all gone in a great white wave that overtook him and he was sinking... sinking, bathed in the warm wet comfort... opening to it taking it in taking her in and her erasing him.

Unwillingly, he was aware again; he was facedown, his entire body surging with orgasm, and Zeke was plastered to him, making choked sounds into his shoulder as he came. Zeke's hand groped for Casey's erection to finish him and discovered that Casey had already finished.

Zeke withdrew and collapsed onto his side, pulling Casey over next to him with an arm around his waist. "Fuck," Zeke sighed. "Just — fucking hell." He was still shaking — but then he was fidgeting, muttering. "Ugh... I've got to... just a sec."

Suddenly he was up and out. He was back in a minute, but Casey had already started shuddering from the cold and black emptiness that always yawned as Zeke's warmth began to leave him. He had burrowed under the covers and just when his clenched teeth were about to break apart and let loose a wail of terror, Zeke crawled in and wrapped arms and legs around him from behind, hugging him, saving him. "It's okay, it's okay... It's all good..."

Casey twisted around and buried his face near Zeke's neck. He let a few tears escape, just a few that could be confused with sweat.

"Okay, Case? Okay?"

"Y-y-yes."

"Yes, what? Talk to me, tell me."

"Yes... yes, good... all... so good."

"And calm," Zeke murmured, tightening his arms around Casey. "We're calm, aren't we... we're relaxed."

Casey let out a choked laugh. He kissed Zeke sloppily on the chin, making a wet trail. "I can still feel you," he mouthed.

"Case..."

"Mmm."

"Just now.. did you... how did you come?"

Casey wished that Zeke didn't feel the need to disturb the rising swell of comfort, of blind warmth and security, with a question like that. "It doesn't always happen but... yeah, it was you, inside me. I guess... guess I was pretty wound up."

Zeke was looking into his face like he didn't quite believe him, like he was some creature from another dimension. "Okay," Zeke said, sounding precisely like it was not okay.

"I'll make you work harder for it next time," Casey said, feeling the next wave of chill break over him. It didn't always happen that way but it did happen, so he was a guy who could get off without having his cock touched. That had to be definite proof that he was in fact a slut. Or something else, something altogether worse.

"I'm not complaining," Zeke said. "I'm kind of stunned is all. And it feels a little selfish... but as long as it was good for you."

"Of course," Casey said, and kissed Zeke's neck. "The best."

"Really?"

"Really really. You don't know what you do to me," he said, with complete sincerity.

Zeke sounded happier when he said, "So what shall we do with the rest of this night?"

"Could stay right here," Casey said.

"Ah, but you hardly ate supper and the leftovers are waiting."

Casey muttered, "Sometimes I feel like I'm being fattened for Thanksgiving dinner."

Zeke snorted. "You're a long way from making that the least bit plausible. Wait right here, and I'll bring you..."

He had started to shift, to let go of Casey. Casey grabbed onto him, scrabbling for purchase on sweaty, slippery skin. "Not yet," he pleaded. "Not yet."

After an instant's resistance, Zeke relaxed and held him some more. "I'm not going anywhere."

Casey closed his eyes and held on with everything in him, twining his legs around Zeke's. "You can't go."

"But eventually, I will have to have a shower, put on clothes, go to school..."

"Shower can wait. School's not until tomorrow."

"You have to eat, though. Tonight. So one of us is going to have to get up."

"Thirty minutes."

"Huh?"

"You have to stay here for at least thirty minutes. Then you can get up."

Zeke's chest shook with quiet laughter. "Okay... I accept your offer. Thirty minutes, on condition that you eat everything, including the soggy french fries."

"Deal."

"That's a high price to pay for thirty minutes of my time."

"I won't have to eat cold, soggy fries, will I?"

"No, of course not... I'll nuke them for you."

"It's worth it, then."

Zeke chuckled again, subsiding to a contented quiet that wrapped itself around both of them. Everything was peaceful and silent for a while, then:

"Case..."

"Mmm."

"Were you seriously thinking about taking that job?" Zeke's voice was a low, hypnotizing rumble.

"I dunno."

"Because I really don't think it's a good idea right now. Do you think it's a good idea?"

"No," Casey agreed, and put the job question out of his mind.

 

Thursday began with Zeke leaving the bed and the apartment before eight o'clock. Casey hated that about Thursdays. Tuesdays pretty much sucked too, for the same reason. On other weekdays they could sleep in a bit since Zeke didn't have to be on campus until noon. Zeke seemed to believe that Casey could sleep in every day if he wanted; he didn't want Casey to be waking up just because he had to be up and had made it his mission to move himself out of bed and get ready without causing any disturbance. He had yet to succeed at that, because Casey had to be awake if he wanted those few extra minutes of contact before he was abandoned. It was enough to open his eyes and follow Zeke around the room with them for a bit, maybe exchange a few words and a kiss. Just in case Zeke never came back.

Once Zeke was gone, however, Casey would be able to crash until driven out of bed either by thoughts about the day's tasks or by Sasha's voice, raised loud to fill the apartment and demand Casey's company — whichever came first.

This morning it was the siren call of the shower that urged him to get up. After drowsing for an hour or so, he vacated the bed with a bit of a wince as sore muscles protested. He was completely grungy, his hair crushed and slightly matted with product, dried semen flaking on his belly and the lingering sense of mingled sweat that had dried on his skin. A shower was definitely required. And a change of sheets. He stumbled to the bathroom and stepped under the steaming spray with a sigh of unfettered bliss.

When he opened the door to the hallway, with just a towel wrapped around his waist, Sasha was standing there wearing a hopeful grimace.

"You left me some hot water, yes?"

"Um..." Since Sasha got home from work somewhere between midnight and two, he often slept late and wouldn't shower until noon. The hot water heater would have a chance to replenish itself after Casey was done with it — usually.

"Say yes, kitten."

"Yes... yes, definitely yes."

"This makes me happy." Sasha began to shoulder past him, but jolted into a lower gear as his eyes ran into Casey's bare upper body. Okay, he was probably a little upset about a handful of marks scattered about Casey's neck, shoulders and chest. Sasha had to realize that they were no big deal, you couldn't have sex without getting a few sore spots. Zeke had some too.

"Sasha... why are you up so early?"

Deterred from his visual examination, Sasha had to look at Casey's face instead. "Because," he said. "You know, you can't go on an extra special date without getting up, fixing the coiffure and so on."

"Extra special date?"

"Jerry is taking me out for brunch." Sasha was gently closing the door. "No time to talk, gotta groom."

Dismissed, Casey got dressed in his usual two or three layers, then changed the bed sheets so they would be nice and fresh for messing up later. He went to the kitchen. He made coffee and boiled water for tea. From their potpourri of hot and cold cereals, he selected some type of healthy flakes — Sasha had forbidden him any cereal that didn't proclaim itself an iron-rich nutritional champion — and fixed himself a bowl. He ate while leaning against the counter, staring at the coffee dripping in the coffee maker, and wondering how much impact one cup would really have on him. There were people, after all, who were not sensitive to the effects of caffeine.

"Casey?" Sasha called.

"Yeah?"

"Is there any coffee yet?"

It wasn't fucking fair — but Casey poured Sasha a cup and marched down the hall and into the bathroom. Sasha was still wearing only a towel, and halfway through the shaving process. Casey placed his coffee on the sink next to the faucet like an offering.

"Ah... thank you, kitten." In the mirror, Sasha smiled at him, then refocused his attention on what he was doing with his razor.

Casey leaned back against the wall, close to Sasha. "When do you have to go?"

"Jerry's going to be here any minute," Sasha muttered, trying not to move his jaw. "Don't have to be at the restaurant until eleven though."

"Do you want me to... um... stay out of the way? 'Cause I could — "

Sasha lowered his hand altogether, leaving a patch of white foam low on his cheek and jaw. "Absolutely not, kitten. In fact, you're welcome to come with us."

Casey lowered his gaze, smiling a bit. "I don't think so."

"It's going to be a feast, kitten!"

"No, thanks."

Sasha shrugged. "You can always change your mind."

"Isn't it supposed to be kinda... a romantic thing for two?"

"We can go over to his place and do romantic any time. Right now, I would much rather enjoy seeing you stuff your face with food."

Sasha finished up his shave. Now came the skin care regime, and after that the eyebrow tweezing, the styling products and the hair dryer. Casey moved himself to sit on the toilet seat, and watched. Sasha seemed perfectly comfortable, going through his ablutions without any visible concern at Casey's oddity.

"Your hair needs a trim," Sasha said.

Casey scowled. It hadn't been all that long since his initial visit with Adam.

"It does," Sasha confirmed. "Your cut is losing its shape, and... I think it's time we considered moving on stage two."

"What is stage two?"

"Just a little colour experimentation."

To Casey's mind, Sasha was entirely too invested in his hair. "I dunno..."

"Oh, you'll look fabulous when I'm done with you, kitten. Not that you aren't already fabulous." Sasha took his eyes from the mirror long enough to smile at Casey. "Just trust me."

"Um..."

"Have I ever steered you wrong? No, don't answer that. How was relaxation yesterday? Is it getting any better?"

"Not really."

"Aw... my poor kitten — but you know you have to stick with it."

Casey sighed, "Yeah."

"Tell me what else you did yesterday."

"Zeke brought his friend over," Casey blurted.

"Oh? Which friend? That Winona?"

"That Winona," he confirmed, then, "Did he plan to do it before? Did he tell you about it?"

Sasha spared a moment from rubbing lotion onto his skin to ponder Casey. "Zeke mentioned that he would like to have Winona by one of these days but I don't think he had the day picked out or anything." Sasha was studying his little lunatic friend, whose knees were now jittering and bouncing around. "I have the impression that something about this bothers you."

Casey couldn't hold back for more than a few seconds. "It felt... it didn't feel right."

"You just met her, Casey."

"But... I..."

"Give her a chance. You didn't like Jerry at first... you didn't like me at first. Do you see a pattern emerging here?"

He ducked his head. "I guess."

"Speaking of which... could you get the door, kitten?"

"Door?"

"You didn't hear the bell just now?"

There was someone at their door and Casey hadn't noticed, which was probably a sign that he was already way over the top this morning. He hurried down the hallway, holding the door open just a crack at first to make sure it was in fact Jerry before fully admitting him to the apartment.

"Hey, Casey," Jerry said. "How are you?"

"Okay."

"I'm almost ready, babe!" Sasha shouted down the hall.

"Huh," Jerry said, for Casey's benefit only. "Then I only have an hour or so to wait." He grinned, inviting Casey to grin back.

Casey granted him a smile. Sasha was not exactly correct to assume that he now liked Jerry. He wanted to like Jerry, he had determined that all other factors being equal as far as potential alien infection, Jerry was someone whom he'd like to like. Certainly, most of their encounters since that first, disastrous episode were not unpleasant. On the second date, Jerry had come over with a gift, a new DVD of Casablanca — a peace offering for Casey he said, but obviously intended to woo Sasha, which it certainly did. Even Zeke had been impressed by the man's shrewdness. On the third date, Jerry cooked dinner for Sasha at his own apartment and Sasha didn't come home until next morning.

"We're going to the Queen Anne for brunch, Casey," Jerry said. "Would you like to come with us?"

"No, thanks."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. I have an appointment at one anyway."

"Okay, well, some other time."

It occurred to Casey that he needed to do some catching up in his journal before his therapy this afternoon. He said to Jerry, "Go ahead and crash on the couch. I have something I need to do... sorry..."

"Hey, that's okay. I'll just spend some time alone with Sam."

Sam was Jerry's name for the big TV. He was in love with Sam, and he had already made arrangements with Zeke to come over and watch hockey at their apartment whenever possible. Of course, like Sasha he was working almost every night, so that could only happen on a Sunday or a Monday.

Casey nodded and smiled and went to his room. He got his Dr. Yves journal from his dresser drawer and opened it to the last page he had written on.

I hate that name, he had scribbled last weekend. I wish I never had to hear that name again. I wish Zeke didn't have to go to school or that I could go with him and be his school buddy... anything but her. I'll bet she's gorgeous. I'll bet she has perfect skin and perfect eyes and teeth and hair and big tits.

He sighed miserably.

He put his pen to the page and wrote,Why doesn't Zeke see what she is?

 

"So Casey... What do you want to talk about today?"

Helen Yves was wearing a white ruffled blouse and a pink suit. He was in the big chair adjacent to her. He had settled on that piece of furniture early on in their relationship and it was now the pattern, just like he had his particular chair in the waiting room and she would always appear in the hallway and say, "Casey?" and he would follow her into her office. He occasionally would think about deliberately choosing another chair, but it always seemed like that would be too obvious and he was just too self-conscious about it, so it never happened. He would unzip his windbreaker, but he had yet to take it off in her office. He would sit down and take off his shoes and place them neatly beside the chair because he knew at some point he would want to put his feet on the cushion. It was risky, it would slow him down if he had to leave in a hurry — but in the meantime, he didn't want to get dirt on her furniture.

"I met someone," he informed Dr. Yves.

"Yes?" she said, pen poised to make a note of the details.

"Last night... I met Winona. She came over."

"And how did that go?"

"Okay."

"Just okay?"

"It was... tense, I guess. I don't think she liked me."

"Why do you think that?"

It was time; he pulled his legs up and tucked his feet in beside him. "We went to have something to eat and... Zeke spilled his water on her and I started thinking about the witch in The Wizard of Oz, how she melted when they threw water on her... ?" Casey looked to Dr. Yves for a smile or some other form of recognition of a shared cultural experience. Nothing; he never got anything from her when he mentioned a movie. For all he knew, she had never heard of talking pictures. "Anyway, I started to crack up, I knew it was bad, but..."

"But that just made it harder to stop."

"Yeah. And then everyone joined in... I think she thought we were laughing at her."

Dr. Yves tapped her pen on her pad of paper. "That's the kind of stuff that happens to everyone, Casey. Interactions between people are always messy. I'm sure that it wasn't as serious as it seems."

He shrugged. "Maybe."

"Apart from that, how did it go?"

He shrugged again.

"Did you talk to her at all?"

"A bit. She asked me for help with studying."

Dr. Yves looked encouraged. "That doesn't sound like she was not liking you."

"She probably only asked me to put on a good show for Zeke."

"Oh?"

He hesitated. "You're going to think I'm being all borderline now — but I'm not wrong about this, I know it."

"Go ahead and tell me, Casey."

"Um... She obviously wants him but he doesn't see it. He even tried to tell me after that I shouldn't worry because she's got a boyfriend and all that."

His shrink reacted even less to this than she had to the movie reference. He was getting nothing from her now, neither disapproval nor reassurance. "Hmm... so Zeke did know that you've been feeling nervous about Winona."

"He's really good at..." reading minds but he'd have his work cut out with you "... reading me."

"It would seem that he can read you completely but he can't read her at all."

That made it sound like he thought Zeke was an idiot who was blind and ignorant about people, but it wasn't that, it wasn't at all. "Um... okay, I don't know that she wants Zeke but... I think... she gives him these looks."

"Do you think that maybe these 'looks' could mean something other than what you think?"

"I suppose."

"Casey. Are you just saying that?"

He evaded her gaze, checking out the print of the eagle in flight for the hundred- and-forty-second time.

"Casey?"

He blurted, "People aren't what they seem."

Right away he realized that he had made a mistake, even before Dr. Yves set aside her pen and notepad and folded her hands on her lap like she was settling in for a long debate. "I'd like to talk about what you just said."

His brain started jabbering, getting him absolutely nowhere. He couldn't decide if he should refuse to discuss this altogether, or try to play along and make it believable. "Um... okay," he said, involuntarily agreeing to the second option because that was what he always did, he went along, he was always respectful to his elders and accommodating with his loved ones.

"When people make you nervous... is it because they aren't what they seem?"

"I guess." He chewed on an abused fingernail while his heart revved up for a frantic stumble to the end of the session. He would never know if it was near or far to one- forty-five p.m., she always kept the clock facing herself, away from him because he was not to know the time, that would give him an iota of control over the situation.

"So when you come in here and you're feeling anxious from having walked here... you're thinking that everyone on the street, everyone you encounter..."

He wanted her to realize how indisposed he was to this discussion; this he wanted to say: "They may be okay, but I have no way of knowing."

"And that includes me?"

He nodded, lobbing a resentful glare at her from beneath his eyelashes.

"Is there anyone you don't feel that about?"

That was easy. "Sasha," he answered, without pause.

"Sasha. Anyone else?"

He hesitated before adding, "Zeke," because sometimes, just once in a while, he discovered that he really didn't know what to expect and had to be wary about Zeke's reaction to a thing but that didn't mean that he didn't trust Zeke, he did, he knew he was safe with Zeke, it was just that sometimes... sometimes Zeke could blindside him.

"You sound like you're not sure about that."

"N-no — I mean yes, I am sure."

Dr. Yves paused to assess him, to categorize all the signs and symptoms that he couldn't ever stop from happening over and over and maybe she would write something next about how obvious he was, how pathetic and vulnerable and helpless to prevent himself from being completely exposed. "Are you feeling anxious right now, Casey?"

"Yes," he gritted.

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Is it Zeke who makes you anxious?"

"No."

"What then?"

"I don't know."

"Casey, I want you to think about the last time a person — not including right now — made you feel nervous. Can you picture that person?"

"Yes."

"Where and when was that?"

"In –- in your waiting room, there was a lady sitting next to me and I felt like she... she was watching..."

"Tell me exactly what you were thinking."

"Thinking?"

"What thoughts went through your head?"

"I felt scared, like she wanted to do something to me."

"Okay, Casey, but that's a feeling and I asked what you were thinking."

"Um... there weren't any thoughts."

"Casey, you've been reading that book, haven't you, about anxiety? I think it's time that we start using the techniques from that book. Different books call it slightly different things, but basically, it's called the cognitive-behavioural approach. Have you gotten to the part of the book that explains that yet?"

Well, it was in the first chapter..."Yes."

"What is the basic premise of the cognitive-behavioural method?"

Always the obedient student, he mumbled, "The premise is that the way you think establishes the way you feel rather than the other way around."

"Right. That means that every time you get anxious or upset there is a thought or group of thoughts that are distorted in various ways and that those distortions trigger emotional responses. If you can identify those distortions and untwist your thoughts... you can help yourself to feel better. That means that in this method, there are thoughts behind every feeling." She waited, and when he had nothing to say, she said, "So what were you thinking?"

"R-really... when it... happens... I can't think."

"I don't believe that, Casey."

"It's true!"

"Even if you feel like your head is all blank, and I understand that, it is very normal with anxiety, there is still a thought somewhere behind it. The first step in doing this method is learning to identify what that thought is."

"All right — I was thinking that I can't fucking think."

"Is there some reason that you're getting angry?"

No reason, except that he had been set up, trapped and caught out. Weeks of her just listening to him ramble, the innocent suggestion that he buy and read this book and absolutely no warning that they were going to suddenly start using it. He said, "I'm not angry, I just don't like being told there was a thought when I don't remember thinking anything. I'm telling you and you're not believing me."

"Okay, Casey. I'll accept that. However, there are exercises in the book that I'd like you to do for next time. They'll help you to practise identifying the thoughts that upset you. But for now... you said that the lady in the waiting room made you nervous and you blanked out, but how about just before? Just before your mind went blank?"

He was so trapped here, so fucking trapped. He should be running from here and never coming back, except that Zeke and Sasha would never allow that. He could flee and they would catch him and bring him back, citing his own good. His only escape was to sit there and refuse to answer. He had done it before — or he could try to appease her with some part of the truth. If she understood what it was like to be him, maybe she would ease up a bit, diagnose him finally as a hopeless cause and leave him alone.

He remembered the waiting room, remembered sitting there looking at that woman's face and how she seemed to be looking at him every time he was looking at her, and he said, "I was thinking I'm not safe with her here."

"Why? What is she going to do to you?"

"Hurt me."

"How would she hurt you? Physically? Emotionally?"

"All of the above."

"Exactly how would she do that?"

"I don't know."

"I have a feeling you do know, Casey."

"I don't."

"Is it something that happened to you before, something bad or frightening? Something that hurt you?"

He noticed that he was rocking slightly. He made himself stop.

"Casey, do you remember the first time that you were afraid to leave where you were living? Can you remember when it was?"

"Not really."

"I want you to think about the first time that you felt so scared that you chose to stay in rather than go out. Now, when I say chose to stay in, I don't mean feeling shy of people in general or just wanting to stay at home because it was cold outside. I'm talking about a time when you had somewhere to go — either you had to go out, or you really wanted to go out — and the fear of what was out there actually prevented you from opening the door. Do you remember the first time that happened?"

Apparently she thought if she asked the same question a different way, it would get her a different response. "No."

"Perhaps if you thought about it..."

"I said I don't —! " he choked.

Her eyes flew up because he was on his feet. His fists were clenched at his sides, and he was trembling.

"Please sit down, Casey," she said calmly.

He sat, right on the edge of the chair, keeping both feet on the floor.

"If you're saying that this is something you can't talk about, Casey, I will accept that."

He needed to get out, away, never needed anything like he needed right then. He stared at a single point on the carpet, willing himself to blank out zone out fade away but there was still the voice of authority, thrusting in and murdering the warm, soft haze that barely got hold of him before it was crushed.

"I do hope that you will be able to tell me at some point, or it will be very difficult for us to continue to work together. I am quite willing to be paid to sit here and listen to your feelings and your worries about Zeke session after session, but frankly, I don't think that would be very effective. Now that I've been seeing you for almost a month, I think it's time to start identifying and pursuing some goals for your progress. Do you agree?"

The silence grew and lengthened, and he sat there, shaking.

"Casey," Dr. Yves said, refusing to let him be. "Do you want to say anything?"

"No."

"What are you thinking now?"

"Nothing."

He was now reduced to being a sullen teenager, and he hated that. No, even worse, he was a child, sniffling because there was no way out, nothing he could do, nothing he could tell her so nothing to say and of course he could only fall back on being pitiful which only made the tears come faster.

"What are you feeling right now, Casey?"

"Trapped."

"Trapped by me?"

"Yes."

"Can you explain that to me?"

He wiped his nose with his sleeve. "You won't — stop."

"I won't stop — ? Asking you questions."

"Yeah."

"But you always have the choice whether or not to answer, Casey. There will be no retaliation if you don't answer. I won't hold it against you, I won't take anything personally. My job is to encourage you in helping yourself, not to trap you."

He didn't have anything to say to anything now. He was exhausted, drained of his will.

"You know what I think, Casey? I think that you want to tell me whatever it is."

"No, I don't... I don't, I..."

"I won't force you, there's no need to panic. I would just like you to think about how it might feel to get something off your chest, something that's been weighing you down. You could even do a list in your journal. You can write down the pros and cons of telling me whatever it is. You don't have to show it to me, but for some reason it makes a huge difference when you write things down. Do you want to do that?"

"Maybe."

"Think about it over the weekend, okay?"

"Is our time up?"

"Pretty much."

He moved quickly, bending over to put on his shoes. He crammed his feet into them without untying the laces. He would happily endure broken toes to get out of there faster.

"Take care — " she started to say. He didn't hear the rest of it because he was out the door, down the hall, and then on the steps in front of the building, fumbling for his cell phone, quite sure that he was never coming back.

 

"Hey," Winona said, letting her book bag fall with a thud on the chair next to her as she sat. "Are you studied out yet?"

"Almost," Zeke answered. He had his notes in front of him and a neglected cigarette on the go, trying to get in a bit of studying before he went to play squash with Stan. He really would have preferred to be alone at this particular time, but he set that aside without any ill will towards her.

"Me too. You wanna go shoot some stick?"

"Some what?"

"Pool, Zeke." Winona batted her eyelashes. "There's a cue ball with my name on it."

"Is that so?" Zeke said, caricaturing one of the favourite expressions of their philosophy professor.

She laughed. "Yeah, that's so. I'll bet I beat your ass, too."

"Hmm. I'd love to show you otherwise, but I'm already scheduled to kick someone else's ass at squash in a little while."

"Oh — hey, maybe we can get together after the squash — you, me and Casey."

"I don't think..."

"Why don't you ask him? He's going to call soon, isn't he?"

He eyed her, wondering if he should read something into that. "Yeah. Don't take this the wrong way, but what about the guy you're dating? Do you not want to spend some time with him?"

Winona shrugged. "I only see him once a week, tops."

"That's all?"

"We like each other and all that. I just don't feel the need to be with him constantly. I don't think I have that in me. But then maybe I just haven't found the right guy yet."

Right then Zeke's phone chimed. He didn't think it was necessary to comment, simply pulling it out and answering, "University of Washington."

There was a silence.

"Zeke?"

"Yeah, Case."

"Are you — coming home now?"

"I have squash with Stan, remember?"

"Oh."

"Is everything okay?"

A pause.

"Yeah, it's... fine," Casey mumbled. "J-just leaving Dr. Yves' office."

"It doesn't sound fine," Zeke said.

There was a long silence in which Zeke began to be alarmed, then:

"I wish I was home right now. I wish I was home and you were home."

There was nothing sexual in that, nothing that had anything to do with trying to entice or seduce. It was a statement of fact. "Something is wrong," Zeke inferred. Winona jerked a look in his direction.

"Just a d-difficult... a hard... time... Want to get home..."

Casey hung up without waiting for Zeke to even reply.

"Things okay?" Winona asked, sounding concerned.

Zeke was on his feet, putting away his things. He shoved his study notes in his backpack and tossed his phone in after it. His squash racket was protruding out the top and he spared a regretful thought for Stan, to whom he was going to be apologizing very soon. He would have called Stan if the guy had a cell phone, but he didn't, and he was probably already on his way to the gym.

"Zeke?"

"He hung up on me," Zeke said, tossing his backpack over his shoulder and nearly taking out his own eye with the handle of the squash racket in the process. He was already five steps away when he added, probably unnecessarily, "I've gotta go."

Winona called after him, "I hope everything's okay."

Hurrying didn't help him get home any faster. Stupid buses came at scheduled times. He could curse everyone who got in his way — which he did — and hate the bus and all the stupid people that had to get on at each stop — which he did — but it still took him forty-five minutes to get from The Study to home. He ran from his stop to the apartment, nearly tripped going up the stairs, and came through their door yelling, "Casey! Case!"

There was no answer. He was ready to get down to the real panic now.

"Casey — " he called again and stopped because Casey had emerged from the bedroom, looking exactly as he always did, an image of beauty that was tattered around the edges. Zeke seized him and kissed him with such vehemence that their teeth collided.

Casey uttered a muffled protest and Zeke detached his mouth. He loosened his grip slightly but did not let go; Casey's flesh was still there under his hands, reassuringly solid.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It was just that... on the phone you sounded so..."

"I just needed to get away from there," Casey murmured, staring past Zeke.

"Where? From the doctor's office?"

"Zeke?" Casey looked up suddenly, anxiously. "I don't want to see her anymore."

"What?"

"I — I can't — see her."

It was obvious whom he meant, but Zeke was having difficulty tracking. "Dr. Yves?"

Casey was almost quivering. If Zeke hadn't been holding onto his arms, he probably would have been doing the hand-wringing thing that he did in times of extreme distress. "Yeah..."

"I don't understand."

"I just can't, okay?"

"But Case..." Zeke forced his head to clear. "Let's sit down and talk about this."

Casey started to shake his head, but Zeke ignored it, leading him to the living room couch. Zeke sat sidewise with one leg tucked up, while Casey just sat, looking straight out with his arms tightly folded across his chest.

"All right," Zeke said. "What happened?"

Two plaintive eyes glanced his way, but that was all he got. It occurred to Zeke then that this was about him, about his reaction to whatever this was. A very specific concern boiled to the surface of Zeke's mind.

"She didn't tell you that I was bad for you, did she, because — "

"No," Casey said.

"But she knows about me, right?"

"Yeah, she knows about you."

"And?"

"That's not... she hasn't really said anything because... um, because I won't talk about not being with you."

Zeke's fretful thoughts cooled to a possessive simmer. He said, "What's the problem, then?" And then it came to him even as Casey told him:

"Aliens."

"How do you mean? Does she know something? Did you tell her?"

"No. But she — but she — " Casey gulped, unable to get out more than that. He seemed moments away from a panic attack.

"Whoa." Zeke reached out with his hand; Casey took it as an offer, grabbing it and holding it against his chest. "It's okay." Zeke waited for Casey's breathing to steady. "Okay?"

Casey nodded. He let their hands drop to his lap, keeping Zeke's tight in his.

Zeke said, "Okay, let's reason through this. She's always made it clear that you set the agenda, right? Like you just told me... Some things just have to be off limits. There are other things you can talk about."

"I'm not — I can't go back."

"Case, you have to." He saw a reaction to that, a twitch of something bitter and unhappy, but he plunged on nevertheless. "I suppose if it really isn't working we could try someone else."

"It wouldn't make any difference."

The words were barely audible. Casey let go of his hands and refused to look at him.

"Why not?"

"Because — because they'd all have to ask — what I'm scared of."

"Did you tell her about the things that went on in school... with Gabe and the others?"

"Yeah."

"And some stuff about Roy? About how he treated you?"

"Yes."

"So isn't all that enough reason to be scared? Why should she think there's any more to know?"

Casey lifted his head. He looked Zeke right in the eyes and said almost coldly, "Because she's not stupid, Zeke. Or maybe I'm not quite as good at lying to shrinks as you are."

Zeke would have been less surprised had Casey rounded off and punched him in the jaw. "You're still angry at me about that?"

He had reared back slightly in reaction, no more than a few inches, but Casey's demeanour changed instantly. He clutched at Zeke's arm and babbled, "No, no, I'm not, really. I'm not, Zeke."

"Then why do you even bring it up?"

"I was... I..." Casey's voice failed.

Zeke gently removed his arm and held Casey's hand once more. "I'm not going anywhere, Case, but I think there's something you want to tell me. Something you need to vent."

"No — "

"Case." Zeke reached with his other hand and coaxed Casey's face in his direction. "Go on, be mad at me. I can take it."

Slowly, Casey managed to look at him. Zeke nodded, encouraging him.

"I'm..." Casey swallowed. "I'm trapped."

"Trapped, how?"

"You — you want me to go there to get better — so I have to do that but — but I can't work with the shrink and manipulate her at the same time — I can't do both!"

"Why not?" Zeke said, sincerely not understanding. It was really just a matter of parcelling off certain bits of information and working around them, and Casey was quite smart enough to do that if he wanted to.

Casey emitted a sound that had to be an aborted scream. "Why can't I stop going? Why can't we just say therapy isn't for me?"

Zeke took the time to make sure that when he answered, his voice was even- toned, more concerned than frustrated. "What do you want me to say, Case? That you're just hunky-dory the way you are, and so okay, you don't have to go to therapy if you don't want to? What are we supposed to do about everything then? Don't you want to have a life, Casey?"

Casey stared at him, stricken. "You mean you want to have a life," he whispered.

"That is not what I meant — "

The phone rang, cutting him off and making Casey jump. Neither one of them answered it, just waiting for it to stop. After four rings the answering machine kicked in, and Stan's voice carried clearly from the kitchen.

"Great match, Zeke," he said, probably on the pay phone at the gym from the background noise. "If you're screening right now so you can avoid talking to me... I'm sure you didn't show because you just forgot and you're probably really sorry. I'll get over it... but if you're not really interested in doing this, just tell me. I had to take a late lunch to meet you and I'd rather not do it if you're not going to show up. Talk to you later."

During that speech, Casey's head had gradually sunk down until it was hanging below his shoulders. The moment Stan hung up, he said dully, "You're right."

"Case — "

"No, you're right." Casey was still talking to his lap. "I'm sorry."

"Look at me, please." Casey refused to; Zeke declared, "Case, there's nothing to be sorry about."

"Made you miss your match with Stan."

"No, Casey. I made me miss it, that was me. My choice."

There was a heavy-lidded blink. Raising his eyes only, Casey appealed to Zeke for some kind of permission and must have felt he had it, for he leaned over, resting his head against Zeke's chest. Zeke scooted a little closer. He waited; it wasn't long before Casey's arms were wrapped around him, holding onto Zeke, and Zeke was holding back with all the force that he dared.

"I already have a life," Zeke said quietly. "And I like it just fine. The only thing that would make it better is if yours was better. Do you see where I'm coming from?"

A nod.

"And you — you'll still go to see Dr. Yves?"

Casey answered promptly, "I'll go."

"We can just see how it goes, right?"

"Yeah."

"But you'll tell me if it's still a problem."

"Yes, Zeke."

Zeke loosed his arms; Casey moved back slightly, so they were once again able to look at each other. "Thank you," Zeke said.

"For what?"

"Oh, you know. Putting up with my bullshit."

Right in front of Zeke's eyes, Casey put all of the last ten minutes away in some tight little dark place inside him and smiled, an expression of unblemished sweetness that didn't fool Zeke in the least. Sure, he had encouraged Casey to express his feelings, and Casey had done that. Sure, Zeke had made nothing but rational points — which he was certainly entitled to do in any discussion with a person who was his equal — but he felt like a bully all the same. It was just that there was just no other choice when Casey was irrationally refusing to do something that he had to do.

"How would you feel about crashing in front of the TV for a while?" he asked. "I'm not really hungry yet."

"Okay," Casey agreed.

They rearranged themselves on the couch, both on their sides facing the TV, Casey in front of Zeke, his head on Zeke's arm. Casey put on the Sci-Fi Network, presently showing Star Trek: The Next Generation. Well, Zeke watched — despite the fact that he had never really cared for most of the shows on the Sci-Fi Network and definitely not Star Trek — while Casey attempted to doze off.

"Hey, Case? Don't fall asleep."

"'m not."

"Okay, good."

To distract him, Zeke started a game where he made a fist of his hand and let it fall repeatedly into Casey's open palm, to be bounced back up, that soon turned into them just rubbing palms, clasping fingers. Then Zeke started to spell words on Casey's arm. After a time, Zeke fell to just combing Casey's sleeve with his hand. He heard Casey's breathing slow and deepen; from above and behind him, he saw his lashes flutter.

Then Casey did fall asleep, and this time Zeke didn't have it in him to stop him.

 

It was almost two in the morning when Sasha got home. He appeared surprised to find Zeke in the darkened living room, watching an old black and white movie. Usually both Zeke and Casey were asleep when Sasha got in; Zeke had become so used to it that he no longer even heard him.

"What are you doing up?" Sasha said, his voice hushed.

"Couldn't sleep." He had managed to get Casey awake long enough to eat something and then change for bed before he crashed. Zeke had lain awake beside Casey for a few hours reading The New Yorker; he'd had his fill of philosophy for today. He figured he could get in a couple more hours of studying tomorrow morning. Occasionally he'd gotten up for a snack or a bathroom break or just to stretch his legs. Around twelve- thirty he'd stopped pretending that he was getting sleepy and went back to the TV.

"I think you just missed me," Sasha suggested.

"That too." Well, he hadn't seen Sasha for two whole days.

Sasha fell into his chair with a groan. "God, I'm beat. It's been crazy in that place this week."

"You had some sort of special event, right?"

"That was last night and it was just a very large party of very rich people. Their bill came to about ten thousand."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Nope. They got into the special section of the wine cellar. And get this... They tipped the wait staff twenty-five hundred."

"Fuck me. Did the kitchen get any of that?"

"You bet." Sasha put his feet on the coffee table. "Did you notice that we have messages?"

"Yeah, that's Stan."

"There's two of them."

"Oh." Zeke often neglected to look at the answering machine, which sat on top of the microwave. Today he had been far too agitated upon getting home to consider it anywhere near a priority.

Sasha turned his head in the direction of the TV. "What 'cha watching?"

"I'm not sure, actually."

It was dark, but Zeke was fairly sure he could hear Sasha's eyes rolling. "You'll have to do better than that with Casey around."

Zeke pressed the info button. "From Here to Eternity. Happy?"

"All I know is that's the one where the couple make love on a beach and get washed by the surf."

"Oh, right, I think I saw that part already."

Sasha turned away to look at him. "Where'd you grow up, anyway? In a plastic bubble?"

"I think you forget that you are of an older generation."

"Five years is a generation now? Anyway, I'll bet Casey knows it."

"Casey is different."

"So how are things?" Sasha asked unexpectedly.

"Fine."

"You always say fine."

Zeke shrugged. "What do you want me to tell you?"

"I'm just making conversation. You could tell me about something you did, or something funny that somebody said — "

"I brought Winona over to meet Casey yesterday."

"Yeah, Casey told me you brought your girlfriend home."

"She's not my — "

"Hey, just kidding, sweetie."

"It's not funny. Casey's already acting bizarro about her so I don't need you making cracks like that."

Sasha looked like he wanted to say something; instead, he folded his hands together and rested them against his mouth for a moment before he let them fall.

"No comment?" Zeke prompted.

"I was evicted from your personal life, remember? I happen to think I've been very good and I don't want to ruin my track record now."

Zeke launched himself from the couch in frustration. He should have explained in the first place that the demand for Sasha to butt out logically excluded any time that Zeke actually requested advice. For lack of anything better to do, he went to the kitchen for a soda. This time the answering machine did catch his eye, and he thought he might as well find out who else had called. It was probably just Stokely, wondering if she could come over, and of course they had completely neglected her tonight.

The voice that came out of it when he pressed play was just about the last one that he was expecting.

"Hello, this is Jacob Tyler... I hope I have the right number." Sasha had recorded their welcoming message, and he had been deliberately obtuse. Something about "Hi, we're not home, leave a message." Nothing identifying.

"This is a message for Zeke Tyler. Zeke, if you get this... I'm going to be in Seattle on the sixth and seventh of November and I thought we might get together for dinner. I'll be staying at the Fairmont. My cell phone number is 555-0015, please call me. Even if you don't want to have dinner. I'd like to talk." A pause. "Take care, Zeke."

Zeke had almost pressed the erase button and reconsidered it for the third time when he realized that Sasha was standing next to him.

"Say, you have a father," Sasha remarked.

Zeke snapped, "I wasn't born in a lab."

"You going to call him?"

"I don't know."

Sasha tilted his head, considering. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really, no."

"Okay. I'm going to bed then. Can I say one thing, though?"

"Fire away."

"If you don't want to see Casey get a lot more bizarro, you'll be sure to include him in whatever this turns out to be." Sasha gave him a cordial slap on the arm and retreated down the dark hall before Zeke could tell him how much he resented that comment.

As if he would have lied... okay, the temptation to erase the message and pretend it never arrived had been pretty powerful, but that had nothing to do with Casey. Zeke hadn't seen his father in three years, not since the day that his parents arrived at their high school turned FBI crime scene just after the alien showdown. Since then, Zeke and Jacob Tyler had spoken a few times, and corresponded after a fashion, in the form of cheques and legal papers exchanged. After Zeke received full control of the trust fund at twenty-one, there had been no communication at all. He had to wonder how his father had even gotten hold of this number since he had yet to share it with his mother. Not that it was classified information. It was in Zeke's name because they all agreed that it was best to make both Casey and Sasha as untraceable as possible, just in case Roy started investigating.

Okay, now he was tired. He returned to bed and set the alarm, then fell asleep with Casey rolled up tight in his arms.

A minute later, his alarm went off. He silenced it within a few seconds as usual, then decided he would allow himself another thirty minutes to doze. When he next opened his eyes, he'd slept for two hours. Groaning silently, he untangled himself, moving Casey's limbs gently away from his own but knowing that regardless of his best efforts, Casey would wake up. And there... before he could get halfway between the bed and the dresser, he heard the sounds of a person stirring and trying to force themself to achieve a conscious state.

"Mmmph," Casey mumbled. "So tired."

"Go back to sleep."

"Why... up so early..."

"It's not so early, it's nine-thirty... but I'm gonna head to the library and do a bit of cramming before the exam." Casey half sat up, then flopped back and lay there with his eyes closed. Zeke reached over and pulled the covers up to Casey's neck. "Go back to sleep."

"'Kay." Casey rolled over, and hugged Zeke's pillow to himself.

Zeke got dressed quickly, sparing a second for one more quick stare at his sleeping lover before he was off to kick some philosophy ass.


	2. Chapter 2

The voice on the other end of the phone line was both familiar and foreign: "Jacob Tyler speaking."

This was one of those curious moments when Zeke nailed himself with a choice that he had otherwise managed to avoid entirely, in this case by performing the simple action of picking up the phone and dialing a number. To speak or not to speak, that was the choice. If he uttered a few measly little words he'd start something that might turn out to be an epic-style mess. If he said nothing, just hung up right now, chances were that it would come back to bite him on the ass in some way. For several seconds Zeke was orbiting Planet Indecision, suspended in the void with the scant forces of paternal obligation keeping him there.

Well, and there was always curiosity, not an insignificant variable. It pushed him out of orbit, sent him on the plunge towards impact. He answered, "It's Zeke."

"Ah, Zeke." His father's tone held a tinge of satisfaction. "It's good to hear from you."

That was an intimation of human feeling, but Zeke would not be duped by such a pathetic gambit. If someone were to inform his father that corporations would no longer be taxed in the United States of America and that he was thereby effectively out of a job, his tone might betray a little bit of concern. In response to any other matter, there wouldn't be excitement or interest or even nerves — none of those textbook feelings that people seemed to feel at moments like this, not from Jacob Tyler.

"You left me a message," Zeke noted, choosing flat and neutral over the agitated and enraged that he could have been. His fingers itched for something, and if they couldn't be wrapped around his father's throat, a cigarette would help...okay, he was in the bedroom now but he could take the cordless up to the roof and...fuckshitfuck, he had forgotten that he was out of smokes. He lay back flat on the bed, trying to convince himself without the aid of nicotine that he was relaxed, casual, and not in the least bit perturbed.

Jacob said, "I wasn't sure if I had the right number, since I didn't hear back from you until now."

So the next play was a mild reprimand, nothing extreme, just enough to remind Zeke that he owed his sire some trace of politeness — but fuck that, it had only been a few days since the man called, and he did need at least a weekend to digest the man's sudden reappearance before responding. Biting back on the perfect rejoinder — Sorry, I figured I had at least three years before you would start to wonder why I didn't call — Zeke replied, "Oh, it's the right number. In fact...how did you get it?"

"I apologize if it seems like an invasion of privacy, Zeke. I did know you were in Seattle, and — "

"How?"

"Your mother told me."

"I haven't given her the phone number."

"No, so I tried directory assistance. You weren't listed — "

"With good reason."

" — so I decided to ask your...your friend, Delilah. Once I explained why I wanted to call you, she agreed to give me the number."

Zeke couldn't take that lying down; he went vertical, growling to himself. Someone's well-toned, lily-white ass was about to collide with his foot — but it was done now, she'd already shot her wad and there was no point in prolonging the consequences. "Why did you call me?" he demanded.

There was no reaction to his hostility, no indication that Jacob even heard it. "Basically, Zeke, I called because I want to see you. As I mentioned in my message. Can we have dinner, are you free this Saturday?"

For some unfathomable reason, Zeke needed a quick scan for sounds of Casey and Sasha before replying. Unfathomable, and unreasonable too, because they had left only ten minutes ago and Sasha was incapable of spending less than half an hour in a grocery store. Not that Zeke had anything to hide from either of them. "I don't have anything planned, but that doesn't mean I'm willing to see you either."

"I understand that you're angry, Zeke. I'm quite willing — actually, I'm hoping to discuss it with you, but I'd rather do it in person. Will you see me?"

Zeke closed his eyes and just breathed. There had been an opening sally; he'd postured a bit, feinted this way and that...now it was time for a little authenticity. "Maybe," he allowed.

And possibly, just possibly, he heard a little sigh at the other end. Possibly, there had been an occasional, vague tremble of something nervous in that cool voice all along and he hadn't quite been noticing it until right now.

"Is there any place you can recommend?" asked Jacob.

Zeke recalled that his father had this thing about quality. It had a lot to do with his having come from a rather disadvantaged, working class background in which many never finished high school, let alone continued on to post-secondary education. Jacob had made his bid for upper-class nirvana on the strength of sheer brains and will. He'd arrived — but he'd dragged a few hang-ups to the pinnacle with him. He didn't always understand the difference between what was the best and what was the most expensive. He would never just kick back with a beer unless it was from some exclusive micro-brewery or imported from another country, and he certainly wouldn't be found in places like the Bayview.

Zeke mentioned the first fancy restaurant that came to mind. "There's Sojourn."

"Is it good?"

"From what I hear."

"All right, then...I'll call them and make a reservation for us."

"I can do that."

"No, I'd like to take care of it. Do you have a phone book, can you look up the number for me?"

"I know the number."

"Hmm...You must really like this place."

Zeke rejected the weak attempt at humour. "My roommate Sasha is a chef there."

"Oh, but I thought — aren't you living with your friend from Herrington?"

Which would be a piece of information courtesy of Rachel Tyler, World Champion of Shit-Disturbers. "I am, and I'm sure you know my friend's name."

"Okay, I was told that you and Casey Connor...Of course, your mother says a lot of things but I don't always necessarily believe them."

That had the ring of sincerity. Zeke had no trouble accepting that his mother called his father once in a while solely to goad him a little, and no trouble accepting that his father put up with it even after they had been separated for over a decade. Jacob had put up with a lot worse from her, for a lot longer than any adult male person should have. "Believe it," Zeke confirmed. "Sasha lives with us too."

"I see. So...what was that number?"

As he rattled off the digits, Zeke's eye caught and mused on a pile of clothing on the floor — Casey's hooded Old Navy sweater and cargo pants. It wasn't laundry, exactly; Casey just wasn't very conscientious about putting his clothing away, a trait that didn't much concern Zeke but afflicted Sasha deeply. Casey tended to drop what he was wearing and leave it wherever he had been standing until the next time he wanted to announce his usefulness to the household by tidying up. The memory of how this particular bit of disorder had gotten there made Zeke smile to himself and rub the phone briefly with his thumb...

Just last night it had been, Halloween night actually, and even though it was a Sunday they'd had the apartment to themselves, Jerry and Sasha having chosen to go to some gay costume party — okay, not quite to themselves. Stan and Stokely had come over with bags of Halloween-packaged chocolates, chips and cookies and the four of them watched Alien and Aliens, two of Casey's favourites. Later on when they were alone, Zeke had asked Casey why he liked those movies so much and Casey had replied simply They're therapeutic. Shortly after that, the sweater and the pants landed on the floor, and Zeke's hands and mouth landed on Casey —

Casey, who claimed that he missed Zeke if they were apart for more than an hour, who couldn't quite meet his eyes a lot of the time but sought his touch like it was an essential part of his drug therapy, who got nervous whenever he had to confront the fact that Zeke had an existence outside of their life together —

Casey, who had been held responsible for everything that was wrong between his previous boyfriend and his previous boyfriend's father. Motherfucking Roy had actually gone so far as to put it in writing.

"You had better make the reservation for three," Zeke realized aloud.

His father cleared his throat. "You want to bring Casey," he deduced. "Zeke...I was really hoping that it could just be — "

"That's not how I want it."

"We have a lot to talk about and I thought...I guess I thought it would be between family."

"I haven't agreed to discuss anything personal, Jacob, and you're not my family by the way. I've only agreed to have dinner. I want to bring my boyfriend with me. If you have a problem with it then you can forget it."

There was a pause. "I hear you," Zeke's father said.

"Good."

"Just so you know, Zeke, I don't have any problem with your sexual orientation."

Zeke snorted.

"Sorry to disappoint you," Jacob maintained, "but I don't. Whatever makes you happy. Again, I was just hoping to talk with you — but if you really want to bring him, that's fine. I'm not going to make an issue of it. I'm curious to see him again, in fact."

That last shook off a warm frisson through Zeke's body — not quite excitement and almost dread. It was good, and weird, and a little bit nauseating too to think about Casey and his father again sharing the same continuum. "You remember him, then."

"Of course I remember him, I don't see how I could forget him, Zeke. He's the guy who dragged you into some crazy science-fiction plot that had the FBI involved and those reporters crawling everywhere...I remember him very well, although I'm not sure he'll remember me. He seemed a bit — "

"Don't even go there, Jacob."

"I'm just saying what I observed, Zeke. I'm not trying to put him down."

"Whatever. I already heard it all from Rachel, anyway."

"I'm not your mother."

"Fuck me, but that's a relief," Zeke snarled. "We'll see you on Saturday."

"Zeke. Whatever I've done to piss you off — "

"Save it. Just let me know when the reservation's for."

He hung up, tossing the phone onto the bed beside him. He briefly considered following Casey's example and flinging the phone against the wall or some other hard surface — but it would be just too ridiculous for one household to smash two perfectly good phones in two months. No, he would save his aggression for the email he was about to write. He moved to the computer, which had been booted up since this morning so Casey could reply to his almost-daily email from his parents. Zeke would have turned down the gift of the computer if he'd known that it was actually a ploy to extort communication, but Casey didn't seem to mind about that. Casey liked his parents, after all...even his pinhead father.

Zeke set about conveying his feelings to Delilah, while keeping one ear open for the sound of Casey and Sasha returning from their grocery run.

hi, he typed with his slow, two-fingered method. guess what? i just got off the phone with someone who wouldn't have been able to get in touch with me if not for you. thank you SO much. thanks to you, i'll be eating a meal this saturday night with this man i haven't seen for three years. it's such a pleasure to renew that father-son relationship that i've always been missing.

and just in case what i really mean isn't making it into your head, i'm trying to say that you are not to give out my phone number to anyone from here on in. i don't care if the president calls and says that there's another alien invasion and he needs to get in touch with casey and me immediately. you are NOT to give out our number. i'm still trying to figure how you could have thought this was a good idea.

i expect an apology, he finished.

He clicked Send before better judgment could get anywhere with him, then went out to buy some cigarettes from his usual source, a lottery store just a few steps down from the Bayview. When he returned, Casey and Sasha were still out. He went up to the roof to have the smoke that he had been needing for hours.

For a while today he had been in such a superb mood, such a long time ago now, on campus learning that he had gotten ninety-four percent on his mid-term. Winona had earned a seventy-five and was also extremely pleased, suggesting that Casey should take some of the credit for it. Zeke was intending to share the good news when Casey phoned him at two o'clock as per the routine — but Casey didn't phone. Zeke stood outside his lecture hall and made himself fifteen minutes late waiting, then phoned Casey himself. There was no answer, and Zeke forced himself not to get alarmed. There were any number of perfectly valid reasons why Casey might not phone him, the obvious being that the battery on his cell had died. It did not have to be related to that wretched reality of Monday being a therapy day and the first since last Thursday's when Casey had run headlong into past history. In fact, Casey hadn't said a word about the impending session that morning, which was why Zeke had decided not to mention it either.

Another thing they hadn't discussed — but that Zeke understood intuitively — was that he must not make a habit of rushing home every time there was a break in routine. So he had gone into his class, fidgeted and tapped his fingers for the duration of the lecture and left five minutes early. He spent the bus ride thinking up three or four more un-scary explanations for Casey not calling him.

Then Sasha was waiting for him at their door, another variant on the routine that he had come to expect. Normally on Mondays it would be Casey waiting there, and he would hurl himself at Zeke with warm, pliable limbs and a hungry, seeking mouth. It was a very pleasant way to come home.

This was not. This was Sasha intercepting him in a hushed voice, his face pinched and furrowed with concern. Apparently, Casey had come back from his therapy appointment late, and in what Sasha euphemistically referred to as "a state." He had ignored the suggestion that he take a pill, hiding himself in the bathroom at first. When he came out, he crashed on the couch. That was all the information that Sasha could provide; Casey had refused to entertain any questions. Zeke had been about to give Sasha some major grief for letting Casey fall asleep but then Casey had appeared, no doubt summoned by Zeke's voice or maybe just the sound of the door opening.

There had followed a ho-hum, witless verbal exchange consisting of the standard inquiries such as You okay? and You didn't phone...rough day? and the standard answers Yes, Kinda while another — the real — conversation unfolded.

Tell me you're all right, tell me I'm not the next sadistic bully in your life.

But I'm not all right, Zeke, I'm not.

I'm sorry, I don't want to be this person, but I have no choice when you're being self-destructive and irrational.

Please don't make me go there anymore.

I can't back down on this, but how about I cuddle you while you recover from the pain that I inflict on you? How's that?

It was an offer that he knew Casey would never refuse.

Sometime between the euphoria when Casey moved willingly into Zeke's embrace and the slight dismay upon learning that it was a hockey night and Jerry would be over for dinner, Zeke had remembered that he had a task to complete first. If he didn't call his father today, Sasha would bust him — and he knew that because Sasha had told him so.

Thus when Sasha had declared an intention to go to the store to get some dinner ingredients, Zeke appealed wordlessly to him over the top of Casey's head. It took some coaxing and convincing to get Casey out the door with Sasha, and then Zeke made the call.

Okay, he was grateful to Sasha. Without that ultimatum, he probably would have tried to ignore his father's message — except his father would call again, or failing that, karmic justice guaranteed that Casey would find out about the message and no doubt he would then jump to all sorts of conclusions. It wouldn't matter that Zeke had intended to tell him, only that Zeke hadn't. At least now the first part of the ordeal was over and all Zeke really wanted — not in any particular order — was to smoke the rest of the pack he had just opened, to take Casey somewhere private, to cuddle him some more and maybe fuck them both blind.

Voices downstairs finally announced the return from the grocery run. Zeke crushed out his half-consumed bad habit, knowing that Casey would be looking for him right now. Casey was damaged, yes, but he could also be extremely perceptive. Right now Casey had to be suspicious as to why Sasha had been so vehement that he accompany him to the grocery store, why this strange insistence had come right when Casey would have been excused from going anywhere.

Down in the kitchen, Sasha had two bags of fresh supplies and a mission. "Ready to give me a hand here, kitten?" he was saying as he unpacked things onto the counter, pushing them off to the side to leave a fair-sized workspace.

"Yeah," Casey sighed. He jittered at the sound of Zeke coming through the door from the upstairs, turned quickly and, once he confirmed who was there, showed Zeke one of his more weary smiles.

"I just want to show you how to make pizza dough," Sasha said to Casey. "It's really easy and then you don't have to rely on that cardboard stuff from one of those take-out places."

"I like that cardboard stuff," Casey replied wanly. Zeke contemplated him, providing a faint smile to distract him from the fact that he was being stared at. His eyes looked bruised, slightly red and set against an exhausted pallor. He was all dregs and ash right now, but when he looked at Zeke he became brighter, clawing up a few scraps of enthusiasm from some reserve somewhere. It wasn't entirely real, of course. Zeke knew that he would force himself to get through to the end of the day and then fall into a coma for ten hours. Interact now, pay later was standard operating procedure these days.

"You're making pizza?" Zeke asked. Casually he reached over and kneaded the muscles between Casey's shoulder and neck.

Sasha turned from the counter. "I thought it would be fun to have a kind of make-your-own thing. Pizza and beer to go with the hockey." A flip of Sasha's upper lip conveyed his feelings about the night's entertainment schedule.

Zeke had his arm all the way around Casey now. The shoulders that he had been massaging still felt like blocks of wood; if the relaxation therapy was achieving anything, it was difficult to tell. "You don't have to watch the hockey."

"Oh, please. And what will I do, hang out in the kitchen wearing an apron and do chores while you and Jerry belch and scratch?" Sasha was pulling a large canister out of the cupboard as he bitched.

Zeke considered what Casey would and wouldn't do for him. Repress anger at Zeke about being compelled to go to regular therapy sessions so there would be an illusion of harmony between them — yes. Deny physical exhaustion to be with Zeke for a little while before he fell unconscious — yup. Subject himself to pleasantries with a hated — albeit imaginary — rival so that Zeke could have a new friend. Check.

But to go to a packed restaurant next Saturday and sit with tense people in a tense meeting steeped in long-standing historical tension for a few tension-filled hours...that was something else. Zeke knew firsthand that Casey was quite capable of saying no to any number of proposed outings. If Sasha held any lingering concern about Casey's ability to use that word...He really shouldn't.

Yet Zeke also knew friggin' well that Casey would always try to do whatever Zeke wanted. If Casey decided that dinner with Zeke's father was something that he could survive then he would say yes and hate every moment of it, and who knew what would happen when they got there and what the aftermath would be.

"Okay, science boy, c'mere," Sasha said in the voice that he reserved for Casey and no one else. "Time for a biology lesson."

Breaking contact with Zeke, Casey shuffled closer to the counter, where Sasha had a large mixing bowl ready for action. "Biology?" He sounded interested, whether he actually was or not.

"You betcha. We're going to grow something here. First, you have your dry yeast." Sasha removed the plastic lid from a small tin. "A tablespoon of this...then you add some warm water and a little sugar. The sugar will be food for the little guys to eat. Make sure the water isn't too hot or you'll kill them."

Folding his arms, Zeke leaned back against the stove to watch...and not to watch the cooking lesson. By his clock, it had been nine hours and twenty-something minutes since his last sexual contact with Casey. He observed Casey from behind...enjoying the finely etched contours that began behind his ear and shaped themselves into his neck and back, and his torso that was at this moment clearly outlined under a simple t- shirt...assessing the constant shifting of his weight and unsteady hands that betrayed Casey's general state of nervousness. He needed to be calmed down and Zeke knew just how to do it.

Except it wasn't going to happen tonight. By and large, they avoided doing anything when Sasha was around; even had they achieved the near impossibility of complete silence, they would have no privacy. Zeke held an unconfirmed belief that Sasha possessed some specialized radar that enabled him to know when sex was going on in his vicinity. It would naturally extend at least a hundred-feet in every direction, encompassing the length and width of their apartment, including the roof space.

There was always the car, though. Cars went places, they could get you out of range of the special roommate radar.

"Now you just cover it with a cloth and wait for fifteen or twenty minutes for the babies to sprout. The stuff should be all foamy. If it isn't, your little guys didn't hatch and you might need to buy a new tin."

"Kay," Casey said.

Sasha said without turning his head, "Zeke, are you paying attention to this?"

"Sure."

"What did I just say, then?"

"Put yeast in bowl with warm water and sugar, wait until foamy."

"You're just going to order in all the time, aren't you?"

"Yep."

Sasha sighed dramatically. "I don't know why I even try."

"I don't know either," Zeke replied, mostly teasing.

Over his shoulder, Casey gave Zeke a strained look. "I want to learn this," he said.

Zeke reached for and caressed Casey's arm, smoothing a crease in his shirt, rubbing his hand very briefly. There would be no drive tonight. Tonight, it would be enough for Casey to get through dinner. Zeke would have to relent on the no-napping rule; he had made a premature assumption that all of Casey's efforts to get better would give him more energy, not less.

"I'm going to go back upstairs for a smoke," Zeke announced.

Predictably, Sasha clucked. Zeke started up the stairs, pretending not to hear what came next: "I hope you know that you reek of cigarettes." A moment later Sasha added, "Doesn't it bother you, kitten?"

Zeke stopped with his foot poised over the next stair to listen to the response.

"I don't smell Zeke and cigarettes," Casey murmured, and Zeke was sure that Casey knew he was being heard. "I just smell Zeke."

Back on the roof, Zeke lit up with the confidence of the vindicated. "I smell like Zeke," he told the half-filled ashtray. "But you stink."

Lately, he had learned that it was possible to feel happy at the strangest of times. You just had to go with it and not do anything to disrupt it because it was a fragile thing. It depended on innumerable elusive factors that you were helpless to affect, and contrary to the opinion of some, Zeke did understand that there were things that were beyond his control — which was to say that some things, many things, were in his control. Like where and what Casey ate, and when he slept, and who had access to him. Like whether or not Casey would suffer from the unexpected appearance of Jacob Tyler.

Zeke should never have insisted that Casey be included in the reservation. The fact that he wanted Casey to be there was immaterial. The fact that Casey would probably want to be there too was also immaterial. Zeke had been selfish when he made that particular demand — or maybe he had just been confused because, bizarrely, almost all of Zeke's most recent memories of his father also happened to be memories of Casey. In Zeke's mind, Casey and his father were nearly inseparable, thanks to a certain invasion by intelligent, extra-terrestrial slugs.

 

He didn't think often about the specifics of those two or three days after the aliens came. There was nothing repressed; he had forgotten none of it. It was just that he preferred to travel that stretch of memory in general only, without really letting himself wander into the areas that were frustrating or painful. Being chased and nearly destroyed by a monster from outer space definitely ranked up there with all the baddest stuff that had ever happened to Zeke — but the time immediately after the alien queen died was far worse.

Bruised and bloodied and barely comprehending the past several hours of their life, Casey, Zeke and Stokely had staggered out of their high school. They emerged into a quiet, slightly chilly autumn night, and there was all of Herrington before them — not the town but the people, hundreds of people standing collected in front of Herrington High. They were on the steps leading up to the front door, on the sidewalk, on the lawn, in the street. All silent and expressionless, and terrifyingly, every last one of them seemed fixated on Casey. They bored into him with hollow, inhuman eyes, just at him.

Maybe it was only a few minutes and maybe it was more like ten or twenty. In either case, it was Zeke believing that they were well and truly fucked because these people were still infected. Reason said that killing the queen had worked because Stokely was herself again — or so she seemed — but he and Casey were surrounded and they had nothing left, no scat, nothing with which to defend themselves. During that time it was Casey and Zeke alone in the universe, there was just no way to know if these were their last moments as Casey and Zeke, and the throbbing pain in Zeke's head made him wish that whatever was going to happen would get itself over and done with. He was nauseous, he was trembling and he was not embarrassed that he was clinging to Casey's hand as if they were two passengers on a doomed airplane with nothing to do but hang on all the way to the ground.

Then people started to act more like people. They finally began to wander away in ones, twos, fives and even larger clumps, and Zeke began to believe that it might just be okay. Zeke caught pieces of some odd conversations but mostly people didn't speak very much; they had to have been in shock, perhaps fighting with a residual memory of Casey as the last thing they collectively saw just before they died. Zeke never knew where Delilah got to that night, but Stan suddenly appeared in front of them and he and Stokely fell weeping into each other's arms. Zeke didn't see when they left. His awareness was concentrated in the warmth of Casey's hand, the tight clutch of skin, muscle and bone around his own as they sat down on the steps of the school to wait. Sirens began to shrill in the distance, gradually growing closer.

Herrington City Police units came roaring up to the school, and not long after, an ambulance. The police came unerringly at Casey, who was maintaining a shivering, traumatized silence. There were several small cuts on Casey's face, his hair was damp and he looked every bit of a bedraggled mouse.

The police asked him stupid, rote questions. They were falling back on their training in a time of distress, Zeke supposed, but no one was in a fit state for any meaningful exchange of information.

The paramedics were a gift, though, for when they fell back on their training, they were actually useful. One of them checked out Zeke's head wound and declared him most likely not concussed although he should have someone wake him every few hours just to be safe. The guy's partner examined Casey, who ended up sitting on the back bumper of the ambulance wrapped in a blanket, clutching a paper cup containing some kind of hot liquid.

It must have been an hour or more before the police had run out of questions and just offered them a ride home. Zeke couldn't bring himself to leave Casey and go to his own house that night, and not just because he supposedly needed help looking after himself. Casey had mentioned his parents with some hope, but they never did show up and Zeke was well on his way to reviling them when he and Casey piled into the back seat of the police cruiser.

He ended up having to forgive them all the same. When he and Casey arrived at the Connor residence, Casey's mom was out in her garden, pulling up plants in the dark. Zeke didn't know gardening, but he knew it was unlikely that there were any weeds to pull. She was probably yanking out roots that she had tended for years. Casey's father was inside, sitting in his armchair in front of the TV. He was watching a children's channel, barely blinking. Neither of them seemed to hear Casey when he spoke to them.

Zeke slept on the floor in Casey's room that night. He didn't follow the paramedic's instructions, and he lived through it.

The day after the alien queen died, the press and the government swarmed Herrington. The police sent all of them directly to Casey. The FBI took Casey into his living room and questioned him for a while; then the other government agencies took their turn. Zeke wasn't allowed in, so he didn't know if Casey's parents were on hand. He doubted it. He was expecting to be interrogated next, but after a few hours with Casey, all of the government personnel packed their briefcases and departed. There was no FBI such as Casey would have come to believe in after five or six seasons of The X-Files. There was no Mulder among them, and they had easily drawn their conclusions. Zeke saw more than one of them shaking their head as they exited. "Creepy kid," he heard one of them say.

The press stayed a lot longer. They pinned Casey on his front steps, and he willingly told and re-told the story, either not noticing or not caring about the skeptical faces that were taking it down. Occasionally he looked to Zeke for corroboration and Zeke said nothing. Zeke was not proud of himself, but he knew that no one — not even the Herrington press, who had a damn good reason to believe Casey — was going to accept the story. He would have warned Casey, but Casey was like a burst dam. He couldn't be stopped and he didn't see the reality that Zeke saw until a reporter asked, "So were you doing any drugs that day, Casey?"

And finally, finally, Casey had a slow look of hurt and disappointed understanding. Not that it stopped him. After a pause, he answered the question with complete honesty. He told them which substances he had done, and why, and then he invited the press to interview other people in the town. He did not mention Zeke by name, although Zeke was standing right there, writhing with admiration and fear for him. Zeke wanted to signal to him to stop but he was held nearly spellbound by the image of Casey Connor, the school punching bag, calmly telling everyone exactly how alienated he really was.

Not surprisingly, when the articles and pieces appeared over subsequent days and weeks, there was not a single quote from any citizen of Herrington backing Casey up. The Time piece did not mention anyone by name other than Casey, referring to "several other students who appear to have experienced something similar to what Casey Connor experienced." The article was a meditation on the state of America's youth, suggesting that Casey was a frightened and disturbed character not unlike those teenagers who took excessive doses of Dungeons & Dragons and murdered their parents — or worse, the kind of social misfit who might just come to school one day with an automatic rifle. There was no evidence connecting Casey to the disappearance of Principal Drake, ancient Mrs. Brummel, or a certain transfer student named Mary Beth, and so the press could do little more than hint at things. After a month it was like nothing had ever happened, except at Herrington High where Casey retained a certain respect among the student population. He was no longer the school punching bag. He was the town crackpot, one who should be left alone with his delusions. Even though it was known that Zeke, Stokely, Stan and Delilah had been involved too, no one tended to remember that. In return for their willingness to hold back from telling the entire planet about what had happened, the four of them were granted an anonymity that was denied to Casey.

Zeke only told the story once, and not to the press.

As it happened, the day after the alien queen died was also the day that his parents showed up, both of them at the same time. They too arrived outside the Connors' house, towards the end of the unscheduled press conference. Zeke spotted them standing away and back from the mob. He observed that Jacob Tyler was solemn and silent, while Rachel Tyler harangued him. Zeke couldn't hear any of it from where he was standing, and he knew that was a good thing.

When everyone else had gone and it was just himself and Casey out in front of the house, they finally approached. "What are you doing here?" Zeke wanted to know. It had occurred to him that they couldn't have gotten there so quickly if they were responding to a call from the FBI.

"Your principal...Drake, she called us," explained his father.

"When?"

"Yesterday morning. She said it was very serious and she needed to talk with us immediately."

So Zeke's parents had been chosen to carry the alien invasion to other parts of the world. They would not have been the only ones but it seemed fitting all the same.

He glanced at Casey, hoping for a meeting of minds, a sharing of understanding. He got nothing. Casey was sitting on his front step, staring across the surface of a future that was just beginning to take shape for him. He looked dazed, like he had only just realized that he had committed harikari on national television.

"What happened here, then?" asked Zeke's father. "I'd like to know what's going on and how you're involved, Zeke."

Zeke hesitated for a moment, then answered.

"Aliens invaded our school...our town, actually. They take over your body and control you, sort of like a hive mind. A few of us managed to get away and figured out a way to kill them."

His parents didn't react like he expected. They gazed roundly at him, and his mother asked, "Aliens from where?"

"Outer fucking space, Rachel. We had to kill the queen to save everyone. It was Casey who did it, actually...He's the one who saved us." Zeke made a gesture to indicate the silent bump of a person beside him. "Casey Connor."

His father wore a horrified expression. "...killed?" he echoed. He looked down at Casey, who didn't seem to appreciate that anyone was there. Zeke sat down next to Casey but didn't touch him. "Casey?"

There was only the slightest acknowledgment.

"Casey, these are my parents. Rachel and Jacob."

Casey didn't so much as look at them. He said, as from a great distance, "She wouldn't have liked it here, Zeke."

"Who?"

"She said she just wanted a home...but she wouldn't have liked it. It was much nicer where she came from...better for her she's gone..."

There were a lot of things Zeke could and should have said, but something else happened to him. It wasn't that he had ever forgotten, but he actively didn't remember it a lot of the time because it never came to mind without a significant portion of shame. He remembered looking at Casey and being very aware of his parents standing there and he couldn't make himself answer. He wanted Casey to stand up and act normal, be credible so his parents would believe them both instead of seeing some spun-out kid that had somehow broken their son's mind and involved him in something criminal. So he didn't reply.

"Come with us, Zeke," his father said. "We should go home and talk."

And he went, leaving Casey there on the steps by himself.

They went back to the house that Zeke normally lived in by himself. That was the first night that the three of them spent under one roof in seven years, and the absolute last. For years, Zeke had harboured a secret, vague feeling that he and Jacob Tyler were compatriots in the campaign to survive his mother. He had never known Jacob before he became this burnt-out matrimonial refugee, but he had assumed that on some level his father considered them to be friends. For a while that night, it appeared that he was right in his assumption. His father, who rarely showed any emotion to anyone, seemed openly concerned about Zeke. He asked him gently what had happened, listened to him, and didn't let Rachel get in the way. He didn't judge — in fact, he didn't say much of anything. Zeke went to bed that night with the idea that they might have established some sort of bond. He wasn't yet so jaded that he couldn't hope for such things, although he was justifiably cautious. He didn't commit himself entirely to the notion, and that was a fucking blessing because the next morning Jacob Tyler was gone, leaving the house before Zeke woke. Zeke hadn't seen his father once since then.

 

Zeke's uneasy remembering was cut short by Jerry appearing with two bottles of beer. "Thought you might want one of these," he said, handing the translucent green bottle of Stella Artois to Zeke.

"Thanks."

Jerry peered up at the sky. "An actual break in the clouds," he mused.

"Hmm."

"Am I intruding?" Jerry asked. Zeke snapped a look at him, saw that he was sincerely inquiring. "I can go if you like..."

"No, it's fine." Zeke didn't have a problem with Jerry, especially when the man brought him beer. If Sasha asked him his opinion — which he had not — he would have to say that Jerry was a bit boring. But Jerry was nice, and nice to Casey in particular, so Zeke was quite able to tolerate him.

"I'm, uh...never sure if I should offer Casey a beer or not."

Zeke shrugged. "He is on some meds but I doubt a beer would do him any harm."

"Oh."

"He doesn't really drink, though."

"Huh. That's unusual."

"Is it?"

"Most teenagers I know drink when they get the chance. I certainly did."

"I guess Casey is unusual, then." Zeke tipped up his bottle and downed half of it. "So how was your party last night?"

"Oh...it was a scream," answered Jerry. "Too bad you and Casey couldn't come too."

"I'm not really into Halloween, not enough to figure out a costume and all that. The junk food part is okay though." A few droplets of fresh rainwater splashed on his Zeke's hands and face. "Fuck," he observed.

"So much for the reprieve," Jerry lamented. "Let's go back downstairs."

There was a lovely, sweet, yeasty smell going on in the apartment. Sasha had assigned Casey to slicing some red pepper while he built a mountain of grated cheese in striations of yellow and white. Zeke snatched a few shreds off the peak and got slapped for his audacity. "Nuh-uh!" Sasha scolded. "Bad."

"Can I help?" Zeke offered, conciliating.

"Yes, as a matter of fact...Can you grab the cornmeal from that cupboard? And there's a jar of pizza sauce down there too."

"You bought sauce? You?"

"Eat me, darling, it's my day off. When you're done with that, you can always start rolling pizza dough if you want."

"Um...I don't think I'm qualified."

"I'll do it," Casey volunteered, having finished his pepper-slicing. He had a little bit of flour on his cheek and more in his hair. Zeke was torn between wanting to savour the sight and wanting to rub that smudge off with his thumb.

"No, I'll do it," Sasha said. "It is a bit of a delicate operation. But you can keep an eye on them while they cook, Zeke."

"Can I? Oh, thank you."

It was crowded in the kitchen; Jerry had backed out, going to stand nearby where he could still interact with them. Zeke fetched the cornmeal and the sauce, and then went to join him out of the way, returning to his consideration of what — of who — he really wanted to consume.

"What are we putting on them?" Jerry asked.

"To each his own, but we've got mushrooms and pepperoni, peppers, tomato slices, red onion, mozzarella, asiago and parmesan...there's some chicken in the fridge that we'll slice and cook up — "

"What about the liver?" Casey asked, a little bit too loudly. He was in that condition where he never could quite slip unobtrusively into the weave of the conversation; he always made a bit of a tear in it even though he was trying really hard.

Sasha twisted around and gave him a puzzled stare, then broke into a smile. "Funny, kitten."

"I — I wasn't kidding." Casey backed himself up into the nearest wall, turning to Zeke for reassurance and getting tangled in the voyeur's net. His mouth moved once and failed to make any sound. Zeke nodded at him, and then he managed, "The...iron content of this meal is pretty low — maybe I should sprinkle some...oatmeal on my pizza."

Sasha laughed, and so did Jerry; he understood the context quite well.

"Don't tempt me," Zeke commented to Casey, his gaze steady.

"Oh, yuck," Jerry said. "That's too much to ask, even in the name of healthy eating."

Casey neglected to respond to that. He was busy directing a low-lidded stare at Zeke's...his mouth, it looked like, but drifting in a southerly direction.

Zeke purred, "You shouldn't give me ideas, Case."

"I'm giving you an idea right now," Casey returned.

"I see that."

Five feet had shrunk to nothing. Zeke could see it, could see the plea in Casey for solace that, right or wrong, was directly associated with Zeke's physical presence. He saw the tremble and the fear that apart equalled alone, and he saw the aura of something exotic. Like a plant that exuded pheromones mainly to attract its food, it was beautiful because it couldn't survive any other way.

"Yeah," Zeke replied. His voice came out much more ragged than he expected. He had started to sweat.

"And what do you think?"

"I'm thinking some things aren't for public consumption."

Casey forced a smile, but his eyes continued to maul Zeke.

Sasha's extrasensory gifts must have pinged. He turned around suddenly, took in the scenario before him in an instant, and said, "Okay, kitten. It looks like you're done here. Go and sit down, I'll excuse you from learning how to roll the dough this time. I don't particularly care for innuendo on my pizza."

Zeke took a swig from his now-tepid beer as Casey passed him. His jeans were too damned tight; after a pretense of a pause, he scurried into the bathroom to relieve the pressure. It was quick, fretful hand action gathering up the tension in him and dispersing it. Not nearly satisfying, but it would hold him. It would have to.

 

When the hockey game was in full swing and Jerry and Zeke were busy yelling at the TV and pounding the coffee table, Casey slipped away to his room to tell his journal about his day. He didn't get any further than I need a vacation from all this healing before he felt too tired to write another word.

Zeke had left the apartment early again that morning. His explanation to Casey had been that before his classes began he needed to go to the library to start doing some research for the raft of term papers that he would soon be working on. He didn't say if he would be doing this with Winona or by himself, and Casey hadn't dared to ask.

He'd had his own homework to do if he was going to Dr. Yves' office, and he supposed he was. He had taken out his journal, which he was keeping in the drawer of the bedside table next to his side of the bed. He didn't worry that Zeke would read it, not really. There were some things that just were too reprehensible for Zeke to consider, and reading another person's diary was one of them.

My mood since Thursday was the heading. Casey had underlined it, made it look tidy. Underneath it, he made the list: Scared. Frightened. Anxious. Nervous. Terrified. All weekend he had been trying not to think about what would happen when today arrived and he had to go back there, back to her in her lair of framed, matted creatures and dirt-coloured walls. He would manage to put it out of his mind for awhile, and then every few minutes the reality of Monday would shock through him like a bout of mental nausea. He didn't say anything to anyone, there was no point. He and Zeke had discussed it. He would be going to therapy. End of story.

I'm totally fucked. If Zeke knew how this feels —

That had been crossed out.

When I think about that office when I put myself there I feel —

That line was unfinished too, because he had dropped the pen and run to the bathroom to throw up. He remembered whispering "trapped" while hanging miserably over the toilet.

Later, he'd thrown up again in the bathroom in Dr. Yves' building. When he got in her actual office he started to hyperventilate and couldn't stop. Counting didn't work and there was no point in taking a Xanax by then, it was hours too late. He spent half the session with his head between his knees while his body hurtled towards self-destruct.

A part of the hour had eventually arrived where he was sitting limp and sweaty in his chair, an animal that had gone past terror and adrenaline to numb, passive acceptance of its fate. "Can I ask you something?" she said to him then but perhaps he had not yet achieved total acceptance; she saw his short inhalation, the one that would initiate another ten rounds of hysteria, and she added quickly, "Nothing like last time, I promise. Just...what brings you here?"

"What?" he replied in dull tones.

"You're obviously terrified and hating every minute but you're still here. Truthfully, I half expected you to not show up today."

"I wasn't going to," he said.

"So why did you come today? What brought you here?"

Zeke he answered, not speaking it but privately invoking it, conjuring the image of it.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Zeke," he said aloud.

"Zeke makes you come here? How does he do that? Does he order you, or — ?"

"Not exactly."

"How, then?"

"He...wants me to get better...says I have to...to come here and then I remember that he'll never...he'll never be happy if I don't."

"You sitting here hyperventilating makes him happy?"

Casey croaked, "He doesn't know what else to do to help me."

"Is it so very important to him that you work on things?"

"Yes."

"Why is that?"

"He cares, I guess."

"And if he cares and you know that he cares, why are you so frightened of the consequences of saying no to him? What's going to happen, Casey? Why do you care so much about doing what he wants?"

Casey squeezed his eyes closed. He could do this, he could talk about this, he could...talktalktalk, keep her on this subject and not the other... "It's for him. It's like his life is...all he does is take care of me and worry about me. He says he doesn't mind but I know he won't do it forever. No one would."

He waited for her to contradict him, but she didn't.

"You're right about that, Casey, but it isn't any reflection on you. I think you understand that sometimes in relationships, loving someone isn't enough. Sometimes it gets so that a person can't remain in the relationship and be healthy. Isn't that what you mean?"

Yeah, he meant that but he meant more than that — such as he wasn't good for anybody, not for Zeke, and certainly not for himself. And Zeke would never let himself become trapped in a relationship that wasn't good for him, Zeke was a singular person, someone who was resolute enough to fire his own parents when he thought that it was what he needed, to fail at school when it suited him, and to become gay to be with whomever he chose...only as long as he still wanted that person though because he was always going to be hetero. Zeke had no use for terms like bisexuality, he would say either you are or you aren't something, choose it and be it.

Dr. Yves mused, "So you're afraid that Zeke will get to that point with you, and that's why you make yourself come here, even though it scares you."

"Yes."

"What if you were completely well?"

"If...what?"

"Would you not have to worry anymore? If you were well and you didn't cause anyone any trouble, would you still need to worry about Zeke leaving?"

"I'll always cause trouble."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"It's the way I am."

"How do you mean?"

Casey shifted, fidgeting, needing more than anything to be out of here but couldn't and that left the talktalktalkgottatalkgottakeepherbusy so he said, "It's in me...this thing...I can't change it. Sometimes I think I will but then I get afraid I don't know what I'd be if I wasn't...that."

"Where does this thing come from?"

With a shrug, Casey whispered, "Nowhere. Just is."

Helen Yves was silent momentarily. Then she asked, "Is this thing that's going to drive Zeke away?"

"Might — but if it was gone, I'd definitely lose him."

"You're in quite a pickle, aren't you?"

Tears stung Casey's eyes. "Don't make fun of me."

"I'm not, Casey. I'm just observing..." Dr. Yves crossed her legs and refolded her hands. "If what you say is true, then you have quite a problem. The thing is, it's very difficult for me to assess how much of the problem is real and how much is you setting yourself up."

"It's real."

"I appreciate that you feel that way, Casey. But you see, I talk to many people who feel that there is something wrong or abnormal inside them. They may have a completely different image of themselves than how everyone around them sees them. Can you agree with me on that?"

He shook his head.

Dr. Yves looked less than impressed. "You know," she said like it had just occurred to her, "I think it would be quite helpful if I could meet him."

"Z-Zeke?"

"I'd like to meet Zeke, yes. Would you be willing to bring him to one of your sessions, if he agrees?"

"I — I — "

"It's up to you, Casey. This is your therapy. I just think that if we're going to be talking about your relationship with Zeke like we are, it would be helpful to me to meet him. What do you think?"

"Guess so."

"Will you ask him?"

He told her the truth: "I don't know."

"What is it that you don't like about the idea?"

"You want him to come here and help you pin me down."

Dr. Yves' eyebrows flew up. "In what sense?"

"You want to get all the information so you can pin down all the parts of me and everywhere I turn you'll be there."

"So, I'm trying to trap you again?"

"Yes."

"And you think Zeke will help me."

"He'll give you more information about me," Casey confirmed.

"Why would Zeke do that if he cares about you?"

"He would do it because he cares about me."

"What if what you call being pinned down is actually just me getting to know you so I can know the best way to help you?"

He shot back, "What if I don't want to be helped?"

As ever, Dr. Yves was completely unperturbed by his resistance. "You can choose not to come here, of course, and I think you already know that. But seeing as you are here, I should tell you that I'm not here to give you what you want. What a person wants and what they need are not always the same thing."

"What gives you the right to say what I need?"

"Casey? Who are you angry at right now?"

"You. I'm definitely angry at you."

"Fair enough. Anyone else?"

"No. Just you."

"I don't think you're telling me the truth."

He snapped, "Why even ask me if you already think you know the answer?"

"Because I want to hear you say it."

"I won't."

"Are you afraid of being angry, Casey?"

"I said I'm not — not angry at anyone except you."

"But I didn't make you come here, did I?"

Casey folded his arms across his chest, muttering, "Shut up."

She thought she was so clever but she wasn't, the problem was that he was an idiot answering her stupid questions. He was helping her with the pinning-down, he was playing her game. Simply not answering, that was the only real strategy, silence...Silence was the only real...thing.

"I asked you a question, Casey."

It was beautiful, golden, they said but no, not golden, silence was white maybe silver but not gold and it was hot, burning hot. And not empty. It was full, so full there was no room for anything else, there were no emotions in it no anger no fear... but silence was fragile too.

"Casey. Are you going to answer my question?"

"No." He got his feet under him. "I'm leaving."

"All right. We only have a few minutes left anyway."

He started walking away. Fucking doctor, she always had to be in charge, no matter what he said she turned it around on him. He wasn't coming back here.

"Will I see you on Thursday?" he heard behind him.

He didn't give her an answer. It was a very little thing, him leaving her wondering. She wouldn't exactly be devastated if he didn't show up, but it felt good to threaten it all the same.

For once the walk home was stress free; he found himself on his block with no memory of the trip. He had even forgotten to call Zeke. He should have pulled his phone out right then and called...but he didn't. He was staring up at the sign that read Zorba's, and it occurred to him that life really fucking owed him a coffee. He was tired of doing what he was supposed to do. It wasn't like it was doing him any good and there was no way he could be any more nervous than he already was ninety-five percent of the time so he might as well enjoy something about this day.

A minute later he was pushing through the front door a bit too violently and everyone stopped what they were doing to look at him — including that same man from his previous solo trip to the coffee shop, standing at the end of the line. He nodded to Casey, not quite smiling but definitely trying to be friendly. Casey had no choice but to take up a place behind him, maintaining a gap of several feet.

His nervous system, just recently deadened by indignation, was beginning to revive. He stared at the menu and asked himself if he was really going to do this. He shoved his hand in his pocket again, worrying the little metal tin. He wasn't like this, he wasn't this rebellious person — he just wanted a freakin' coffee.

All of a sudden, the back he was looking at became a face. Casey was able to take in the full ensemble for today; it was monochrome in burnt orange, the shirt, tie and suit all the same colour, meticulously pressed and extremely expensive.

"Hello," said the man. "I haven't seen you in here for a while."

He made it sound like he had already noticed Casey on numerous occasions, and maybe he had. Maybe he had seen Casey when Casey hadn't seen him. It wasn't a pleasing thought.

"Um...no."

"Getting your fix?"

Again Casey noticed the slight lilt of an accent, like a subtle decoration to the rest of the voice which spoke precise, cultured English. "Um..."

"I'm something of a caffeine addict." The man tilted his head. He was studying Casey with an expression that was very direct and open, like he expected Casey to understand that this was just friendly curiosity, and if Casey didn't understand that was too bad but it wasn't his problem. "How about you?"

"Kinda." Casey shifted his weight. Another person got in line behind him, uncomfortably close to his back. He inched forward, trying to create an equal reserve of open space on either side of himself.

Still pondering him, the man said, "Do you find it easier now?"

Casey blinked, not wholly confident that the man was speaking to him; the question made little sense.

"Is it easier now?" the man repeated.

"Wh-what?"

"To be in this world."

From a distance, Casey counted up his various emotions...utter disbelief, shock, not a little bit of outrage that this was being said to his face with all sorts of people in earshot...those would do for a start. "I — I don't — "

"I'm making you uncomfortable," said the stranger. "I have a tendency to do that. I say things that aren't entirely polite but I don't mean any harm by it."

Casey kept staring. He wished now that he had never started this whole enterprise.

"My name is Thomas Kirton," the man said, holding out his hand. He smiled enormously. "You may call me Thomas."

This was just getting more bewildering. Casey noticed that Thomas was now at the head of the line, with a big gap between himself and the counter. Behind it, Coffee Guy Rob cleared his throat.

"It's your turn," Casey blurted.

Thomas looked amused. "Translation: ‘Move your ass, man, get your coffee so you can get out of my face.'" He turned around to retrieve a beverage that had already been poured for him. "Look, Rob knows me too well...let me get yours too."

Thomas put a couple of bills on the counter and stepped aside, gesturing for Casey to move up.

The urge for coffee had expired completely, giving way to a vivid mental image of home. And even if he had still wanted a coffee, Casey couldn't have accepted it from this man. It was too intimate, too much like the start of a relationship. Casey started to move in the direction of the door, planning to leave without another word.

There was suddenly a casual grip on his arm. He yanked it, propelling himself several feet away and almost dragging his captor with him.

Thomas dropped his hand immediately. "Oh, I'm sorry!" he exclaimed. "But didn't you want your coffee?"

"No," Casey said. He was walking, trying not to run, to the door.

The voice with its musical cadences followed him all the way out of the shop. "What's your name?" it called.

On the sidewalk, he froze with discomfort at his own extreme rudeness. He stood with his back to the building for a moment, asking himself how much he really wanted to redeem himself, then turned around and went back in. "Casey," he informed Thomas from just inside the door.

Thomas picked up his coffee in its take-out cup and walked closer. There was good reason for it, as they would not then have to shout at each other across the shop — but Casey almost bolted again. His heart was doing violent things to him, making his body thrum and vibrate with every pulse of blood. He should have been running away and he wondered through the bright haze of anxiety why he wasn't. Maybe it was because he'd never known a stranger to instantly understand so much about him; Roy was the only person who had ever come close.

Thomas probed for a last name. "Casey...?"

"Just Casey."

"Mr. Casey, would you do me the honour of sitting down for a few minutes with me?"

Casey found it necessary to keep his back against the door. All he had to do was push with his legs, and he would be out. "I don't think so."

"Five minutes? It would be a good bit of practice for you."

"What do you know about it?"

Thomas smiled again. "I don't know, I only guess. I'm pretty good at guessing."

"What — what do you want?"

"Just a few minutes of your time, to talk. But let me put you at ease...I have no romantic designs upon you, so you can reassure your overprotective friend on that account. I will not ask you for your last name again, if that helps, or where you live. I only wish to have a conversation with you."

Every alarm Casey had developed over the years was screaming, and still he didn't move. He wanted to, his muscles were twitching with it, and yet he didn't. The reasons to not trust strangers were intact, all the way back to mom's advice on the first day of school, fast forward to monsters behind faces that you knew, walking and talking for them and working their strings — and this man was definitely exhibiting potentially alien behaviours, but there was one thing that was different now. Casey was feeling something that he didn't remember feeling so actively for quite some time. It was curiosity.

"Why?" he demanded of Thomas.

"Truthfully? Because you strike me as unusual. Which would make you a lot like me, so I guess I like you." Thomas smiled with easygoing charm, and waited to hear of his fate.

"You are unusual," Casey agreed.

"Thank you."

Before Casey could assay the meaning of that, the door suddenly gave way behind him. Someone wanted to get in. He staggered back, then forward and sideways a couple of steps still keeping that safety zone between himself and Thomas, which the latter made no attempt to breach. He just smiled relentlessly down at Casey.

Casey's cell phone trilled in his pocket. That would be Zeke calling and Casey broke. He ran all the way from there to their building and up the stairs, so he was panting as he burst through the door. His knees were trembling and he was on the brink of pouring out the whole story to Zeke immediately so Zeke could tell him why he should never go back there again and he wouldn't have to worry about it anymore but it was Sasha who came to him stupid Casey stupid today was Monday Casey —

"What's the matter, kitten?"

"N-nothing," he muttered, and he was close to crying.

"But you're upset...what happened?"

"I — I d-don't — " His teeth were chattering. He ducked under Sasha's arm and down the hall. He didn't know what had just happened, but he knew this: Zeke wouldn't like it. It didn't matter what Thomas intended, Zeke just wouldn't like it.

It would take an entire tank of hot water before he was calm enough to receive Sasha's comfort. He burrowed into that warm acceptance and drifted until he heard the sounds at the door that meant Zeke was home.

He had only moments to savour Zeke's presence, Zeke's arms and his body and his scent. Then he was being whisked off to the grocery store by Sasha, who was covering up for Zeke about something. Casey had noted several surreptitious conversations between them over the weekend and this morning, but whatever it was, Zeke was not sharing it with him. He could have taken Casey aside at any point throughout the evening...before pizza, after pizza, during half-time...any of those options would have been fine. Except Zeke had apparently not decided whether he wanted Casey to know yet — whatever it was.

"Please god...not another letter," Casey whispered. The mere thought of it made his heart play hopscotch for a minute.

The momentary anxiety had just dissolved and his eyes were getting heavy when an outburst from the living room yanked him back to wakefulness.

"NO!" Jerry bellowed, accompanied by an indistinct howl from Zeke. "No, no, you motherfucking whore!"

There was Sasha's voice raised in reply, and although it was at nowhere near the same decibel level and Casey couldn't quite make it out, he was fairly sure that Sasha was giving the hockey spectators a piece of his mind. After that, the noise from the living room was considerably subdued.

Casey took Zeke's pillow and hugged it against his chest, burying his face in it and inhaling deeply of tobacco and nicotine, shampoo and aftershave. "Zeke..." he murmured, just before he fell asleep.

 

It was a wicked volley, helped along by Zeke's attack scream: "Graaaghh!"

That morning he had finally read Delilah's reply to his precipitous email of Monday — and no, he had not been avoiding it, not at all. When he entered his darkened bedroom on Monday night Casey had been unconscious and Zeke didn't want to disturb him with clacking keys or the glow of the monitor. Then, on Tuesday, Zeke had been on campus most of the day, and later at home he had gotten blissfully distracted, forgetting that Delilah ever existed — until this morning when he woke up to the sound of Casey typing and went hot and cold at the possibility that Casey had seen the email from Delilah and opened it. Of course, Zeke and Casey each had their own profile on the computer, with their individual settings and mailboxes, but Casey was set up as the administrator. He could easily get into Zeke's stuff if he wanted to, not that he ever would. Still, that didn't stop the scary wave from breaking all over Zeke. The moment that Casey was in the shower, he had logged on and checked his mail.

Fuck you, Delilah had written. I know and you know that you wanted your father around and you didn't have him. I'm giving you a chance, you can do what you like with it but stop being full of shit. And I expect an apology from YOU.

So it felt fucking good to scream.

The squash ball ricocheted off the wall and flew right at Stan's face. He ducked out of the way with a bit of a grunt, missing the return, then frowned at Zeke.

"Sorry," Zeke heaved, breathing hard. "We'll make that a let."

"No, it's a point...something bothering you, Zeke?"

Zeke had already picked up the ball and was preparing to serve again. "What?"

"Something. Bothering you."

"No," Zeke grunted.

"Okay."

Zeke served. Stan smashed a return that got past Zeke's backhand, and Zeke threw his racquet on the floor. Constructed of molded graphite, it remained entirely undestroyed. "Fuck!"

"My serve," Stan replied coolly. "And by the way, swearing is technically against the rules in this game."

"Fuck that."

Stan drawled, "Alrighty, then."

It only took Zeke a few more minutes to lose the game. Once he had missed his return on the game ball, he lowered his racquet and began wandering around, trying to cool down. Stan stood next to the wall and began the process of stretching. "You know," he said. "You really should quit smoking."

"Fuck you."

"God, but you're a shit today."

Zeke couldn't find a viable argument to that. He stepped back into the wall of the court and let himself slide down to a sitting position. "I'm in a shitty mood," he returned.

Stan slid into a similar position, on the wall opposite to Zeke. "No shit," he said pointedly. "But why?"

Zeke looked at the person across from him. Steady, open and honest, that was Stan. He had the makings of a good confidante, and one additional thing that Stokely didn't — Stan being a guy and all. But then, Zeke didn't really need a confidante. He knew what he had to do, he had just been dithering and soliloquizing like fucking Hamlet since Monday.

"It's nothing," Zeke said. "Just that I talked to my father a couple of days ago."

"Your father?" Stan had been busy stretching, but he stopped long enough to comment, "Wow."

"Why is everyone so shocked that I have a father?"

"Zeke, it's just that...I thought he was out of the picture, you know?"

"Yeah, well...so did I. Now suddenly he wants to have dinner and make nice and like a jerk I said yes."

"Oh," was apparently all that Stan could think of to say to that.

"Yeah." Zeke wiped his sweaty face. "And I told him I was bringing Casey with me but I'm afraid Casey won't want to go."

"Why wouldn't he?"

"You know how he is, Stan."

"I guess..."

"He doesn't like to be out in public, especially where there are lots of people around."

"I knew that, but why, Zeke?"

Zeke shook his head. "It's complicated."

Stan commenced stretching his other leg. "But have you asked him about the dinner thing at all?"

"Not yet."

"Don't you think you should?"

"Thank you, Captain Obvious."

"I'm just saying I don't know why you're all worked up about it when you haven't even asked him yet."

"I'm going to, okay?"

"When?"

"Soon."

"Tonight?"

"Very soon."

Stan struggled onto his feet again with a groan. "While I'm thinking of it, I'm supposed to ask you something."

"What?"

"Aunt Charly..."

Zeke also got to his feet, pretending that his muscles were not trembling as badly as they were. He was even more out of shape than he had thought. "Yes?" he prompted.

Stan just folded his arms.

"What?" Zeke said, exasperated.

"I'm waiting for you to growl or roar or do whatever you do whenever her name gets brought up."

"Shut up, fuckhead. Satisfied?"

"That'll do, I guess. She said that she was supposed to have everyone over to her house, since you and Casey missed the last time, right? And then she was thinking, it's Thanksgiving in a few weeks."

"And?"

Stan rolled his eyes. "So she wants to invite you and Casey and Sasha over for Thanksgiving dinner."

There was a knock at the door to their court, signalling that their time was officially up; the next pair of squash players wanted in. Zeke went out first, going directly to the water fountain out in the hallway. He slurped the warm, stale water and found it delicious. He also considered the possibility that Stan was right about quitting smoking. The phlegm that his lungs were hawking up right now was perfectly revolting. Plus, he was going to be twenty-three soon, which meant that he'd been smoking for almost ten years. He should stop now, before the habit got any older.

"Well?" Stan said. He was holding his water bottle, retrieved from his gym bag; he took a long pull from it.

"Will there be turkey?"

"Unfortunately."

Zeke shrugged. "I like turkey."

"So...?"

"It's probably okay."

Wiping his mouth, Stan said, "No one's going anywhere for Thanksgiving, right?"

"That's kind of far away still, we haven't even talked about it. What about you, don't you go home to see your folks?"

"For Christmas, sure. I can't afford to go twice, though. I can't really afford to go once."

"Your aunt is well off, couldn't she help you out?"

"Yeah, but she doesn't believe in helping out family too much. She wants me to ‘prove myself.'"

Zeke raised a brow. "I would have thought you'd done that by now. Anyway...what about Stokes? Is she invited?"

"Of course," Stan said glumly.

"I thought...the two of you got along fine the other night."

"We do. We're still friends, it's just that I'd like to...well..." Stan trailed off. "And she doesn't."

Poor Stan. If he let himself, Zeke could feel a bit responsible for the break-up, even if Stokely insisted that she and Stan had been in decline before Zeke and Casey ever showed up. So they had just been the catalyst, and maybe if they hadn't been there confronting Stan with their gay ways, the relationship would have soldiered on, even repaired itself. At least Stokely seemed fine with things staying the way they were now. She wasn't happy, but she didn't want to pick up where they left off either.

"So you'll come for Thanksgiving?" Stan pressed. "Say yes, I don't want to be eating all that turkey myself."

"I think we probably will. Just need to check with the others."

"Awesome." Stan started off towards the locker room, letting Zeke trail behind him. "Hey, Zeke, can I tell you something...sort of like...advice?"

"Okay," Zeke said, wondering what this would be, from Stan Rosado.

"Talk to Casey — like immediately. It's was a rough lesson for me, but after getting caught six or eight times I finally got it. They pretty much always know something's up. You could be the greatest actor in the world and they'd still know."

Zeke rolled his eyes, knowing Stan wouldn't see it. Of course Casey knew something was up. He had Zeke constantly under his microscope. He analyzed all data received from Zeke, second by second, and the more time he had to speculate on its meaning, the more complicated the conclusions. He wouldn't know precisely what was bothering Zeke exactly, but he would deduce something — along with twenty or so somethings that didn't actually exist. After a few months as the object of that overcalibrated sensory apparatus, Zeke was beginning to have an appreciation of the kind of scientist Casey would be when his instruments were all functioning properly.

"Thanks," Zeke said dryly, as they reached the door to the locker room. "Hey, Stan? Let me give you a piece of advice now."

"Okay," Stan said nervously.

"Casey's not a girl," Zeke reminded him.

Stan flinched, his eyes getting bigger. It wasn't the message that disturbed him, but the way that Zeke was daring to mention it in the gym, that sanctuary of jocks and muscleheads. They were practically in the locker room, directly inhaling the testosterone, and there were other guys passing right in front of them as they spoke. It didn't much matter that no one stopped for a second, or even twitched. In Stan's mind, they were all listening, and entirely appalled and disgusted. They might have been, too, but Zeke didn't give a fuck.

"Right," Stan said, and fled into the locker room.

Zeke followed, grinning. Stan was just too much fun to torment.

Not that Zeke didn't have a valid point he wanted to make. Okay, there were times when Casey could be a total girl with his melodrama — but it was a mistake to think of him as a girl and Zeke had learned that much later than he should have. If only someone would invent a third category of human being that Casey could belong to. It would make things easier on Stan, at least.

Stan also had a point, though.

Zeke got himself home, arriving freshly showered and a lot less stressed than he had been that morning. As usual, Sasha had gone to work around three, so Zeke and Casey now had the place to themselves for the rest of the evening.

Casey was in the bedroom, also as usual — but instead of being balled up under his afghan, he was sprawled out writing in his journal. He was listening to one of his screaming bands with his Discman and gripping his pen a fuck of a lot harder than any elementary school teacher would ever approve, his hand and face both tight and close to the book. When Zeke touched his shoulder he jerked and flipped over with a face that was equal parts terror and anger, his eyes almost wild. He slammed his book shut and pushed himself up, clawing his headphones off.

"Whatcha doing?" Zeke said.

"N-nothing," Casey faltered. He kept one hand on the book like he was afraid Zeke would try to grab it from him and read it. "Just homework. Ther-therapy t-tomorrow."

Zeke decided not to wonder what this was about; Casey was entitled to some slight degree of privacy. "Okay," he said. "Officially, I'm sorry. There's something I should have told you days ago and I didn't — but I want to tell you now."

Casey blinked away whatever it was he had been writing, putting his journal to one side and turning off his music. When he turned back to Zeke, he seemed to be bracing himself for the apocalypse.

"It's not that serious," Zeke reassured him. He was still standing, looking down at Casey. He should have sat down, but he was finding that the urge to pace was difficult to restrain. "Remember on Monday when Sasha insisted that you go to the grocery store with him?"

"Yeah," Casey said, looking not all that reassured.

"Well...I'm sure you've noticed that I've been a little testy this week, and I'm sorry. See, um...my father phoned me."

Casey clenched his hands together, but didn't say anything.

"He left a message first saying he was coming to Seattle and wanted to see me."

Zeke waited while Casey sorted through his various responses to this.

"When?" was what Casey chose to say.

"When," Zeke echoed. "You mean...when did he call?"

"Yeah."

"Last Thursday, although I didn't realize it until late."

"Did — you phoned him?"

"Yes. While you and Sasha were out the other day."

Zeke could virtually see the pistons firing, emotions combusting, producing enough energy to fuel a thousand messages of insecurity: Wondering why Zeke hadn't given Casey this information earlier, why he had waited until after he called his father back and not even then, concluding that it was because Zeke hadn't decided yet if he wanted to tell Casey. And Casey was right about that. He would just be wrong about the reasons.

"What does he want?" Casey asked, his voice replete with the things that he wasn't saying.

"I don't know. He says just to see me. We didn't talk for very long. All business as usual but we're going to meet for dinner this Satur — "

"Zeke."

"What?"

Casey was almost but not quite whispering. "Will you...will you sit down?"

Zeke realized he had been pacing despite his attempts not to, back and forth beside the bed and as he went on he was making Casey increasingly nervous. He saw Casey looking up at him and looking away, maybe wanting to touch him because that was what you did to comfort someone who was your lover.

He sat. It was just his father, for fuck sake. There wasn't much to feel except annoyance that the man was wasting their time. Certainly there was nothing that required him to be comforted.

"What's he like?" Casey asked.

"Huh?"

"I never met him, I was just wondering what he's like."

"Actually, you have met him. Right after the aliens...Both my parents showed up and I introduced you to them."

"Oh...don't remember."

That wasn't entirely a surprise.

"Anyway," Zeke said. "There's not much to say about the man. He's a tax lawyer in Los Angeles, he's stinkin' rich and he doesn't seem to have human emotions."

At the subsequent quiet, Zeke glanced sideways. Casey had hung his eyes on Zeke. Every gesture, every behaviour was being scrutinized for intention and disguised meanings.

"Casey, don't," Zeke said, more harshly than he had intended, and of course Casey flinched. It would have been nice, just once, to have a conversation that wasn't like picking his way across a verbal minefield.

"I'm sorry," Casey said.

Zeke turned a full glare on him. "Do you even know what you're apologizing for?"

"No...but...t-tell me what it is and I'll stop doing it."

Fuck. Just — fuck.

Zeke reached for Casey's hand and held it, bringing it to his chest. "You haven't done anything wrong," Zeke said. "You're just trying to show concern and I'm being completely hostile. It's how I've...I don't like to think or talk about my parents. I'm quite content without them in my life. I just get completely fucking perplexed when they try to snake back in."

There was something ridiculous in how that last part came off. He sounded...well, vulnerable, even when he didn't really feel that way, not at all. And it wasn't denial. He had taught himself the facts of life as regarding his parents quite some time ago. His father shouldn't be getting to him this much, not when he'd done without the man quite handily for a decade or so.

"I — I want to hug you," Casey said quietly. "But I don't know if you want me to."

Zeke didn't know if he wanted to be hugged either. It seemed like a dangerous thing to attempt right now when there were so many unexpected emotions at large, but for Casey's sake, he would try it.

"I'd like to be hugged," Zeke replied, and between them they crossed that distance just fine. It was not nearly as dangerous as he had thought, and it was actually a very familiar sensation — except this time it was Casey who was doing the holding. It felt ridiculously good, even when Casey was so much smaller than he was; Casey's arms were wrapped around him somewhere in mid-torso. Zeke sighed quietly, finding it expedient to put his head on Casey's shoulder, if a little bit of a strain on his neck. Casey's fingers ruffled his hair and suddenly his throat was aching and that wouldn't do at all. He pulled back.

Casey let him go without a fight but he saw that Casey was smiling. "What? What are you grinning about?"

"I'm really fucking short, aren't I?"

Zeke burst out laughing. "Did you just notice that?"

"Not exactly...just...once in a while it makes things awkward and that's when I really notice it."

Zeke stopped laughing. He reached, plying a finger down Casey's jaw and said with complete sincerity, "You're perfect."

Casey flushed delightfully. "Not."

"Okay, not perfect. Except you are. You're perfect in your imperfection."

"Zeke — would you stop it?"

Yeah, he could stop it. He dragged Casey in close to him and smothered him with kisses because he was perfect and Zeke had to mess him up, get him all marked and molested and dirty. And then clean him up and take him out in public so that eyes could pop out of heads and hearts explode with envy because Zeke Tyler's lover was perfectly strange and strangely perfect.

Casey said quietly, his body pliant in Zeke's embrace, "You know...I used to have fantasies about meeting Roy's father."

Zeke held his breath, afraid that he would inadvertently break the spell. For all the things that he knew about Life with Roy, it sure wasn't because Casey was in the habit of disclosing them.

"I was ridiculous," Casey went on. "I'd imagine myself at Roy's family home. I pictured myself there at Christmas one time. In detail...Roy's parents got me a present. His brother and sister were there and they didn't like me at first but then..."

"Then?"

Casey's head stayed buried against Zeke's chest. He mumbled, "I feel really stupid."

"You're not — come on, tell me."

"Okay...so when his brother and sister see how good I am for Roy, they...accept me and they...they say that I'm their brother too."

Zeke took that in. He was long past wanting to pummel Roy every time he heard some new proof of the kind of miserable human being that he was; it didn't do anyone any good to fulminate and make up threats that would never be acted upon. He just asked, "In your fantasy, what did the in-laws get you for Christmas?"

Casey hesitated. Then, "Flannel pajamas," he admitted sombrely.

"Knowing my father, it'd be silk."

"Zeke..." Casey wormed his way out of Zeke's grasp so he could get an angle on his face. "Do you — I mean — what do you think is going to happen?"

With a shrug, Zeke answered, "I don't know. My father and I are nowhere near having Christmas together, that's for sure."

"Does he know about you and me?"

"Says he doesn't care. Which is actually pretty much in character for him."

Casey frowned. "He's your father, he must care about you."

"That's a nice sentiment, and it would be a nice world if it were true but I've had quite a few years to get used to the idea that my father doesn't give a damn."

"But — "

"Just give it up, Casey. Not everyone can have nice parents. Some of us lost out in the parent lottery, and that's that."

Casey's expression fell and his shoulders hunched a bit, and Zeke realized that he was not being very pleasant to deal with. He really needed to put a stop to it too, or someone would start to think that he was bothered by this father-son crap.

"I appreciate what you're trying to do," Zeke said. "I really do — but there are so many other things I'd rather do with my time than talk about my parents." He put out a finger and lifted Casey's chin, saying, "Will you come with me on Saturday night?"

"Do you — want me to?" Casey said, biting his lip.

"Yeah," he said. "I do. But do you want to?"

"I don't know."

It was a little bit devastating. He hadn't thought for a moment that he wanted to hear yes quite that badly until he heard Casey's response. But I need you there, he cried inside, hating his own whining. I need you, don't you see, I must have you there, I must...There's really no reason to go otherwise.

"I want to...for you." Casey shivered slightly. "I'd...do anything for you — I mean, I'd try."

And Zeke had to admit that there was something that he desperately wanted from Casey. He could barely breathe with wanting it, and it wasn't pretty. It was definitely sick because, yes, he wanted to parade Casey in front of his father on Saturday and say, Fuck you, Jacob. I'm not you, I have something actually extraordinary in my life and I don't need your pasty face and your grey suits and your lawyer voice...I have the kid who saw aliens, the one you dismissed, remember, the one you thought was dangerous — well, guess what? He is dangerous, he's taken over my mind and my body now, he's with me and I'm with him and there's nothing you can do about it...

"I know," Zeke rasped, his thumb straying over Casey's lower lip, following its path with his eyes.

"But I...well..." Casey said, "I'll go...but I don't think I'll be any fun."

Words were extraneous right then. Zeke caught up Casey in a tight hold, feeling Casey's ribs moving against him, pressing air in and out. "I — thank you," Zeke managed.

"You really want me there," Casey said against his shoulder, like he couldn't believe it.

"Of course I really want you there," Zeke said. "It wouldn't be bearable otherwise." And there he went, sounding needy again — funny, it hadn't played that way in his head. He added lightly, "Besides, I want to show you off."

Casey's hand came up, settling over Zeke's heart, near to where he had laid his head. "You're a riot," he murmured. "There's nothing to show."

Sometimes, Zeke had to wonder if Casey's eyes worked at all. Of course people rarely saw the good in themselves, but surely Casey had glanced in the mirror enough times by now that he should have figured out what he was looking at. "What if I list it for you?" Zeke offered. His fingers were beginning to stray again, lingering on some of the features he was quite prepared to itemize.

"Fuck, no."

"Why not?"

"Just — no, please."

"All right," Zeke conceded. He sighed melodramatically, "Okay, then I won't tell you how incredibly hot you are."

Casey had full access to Zeke's throat, and he was taking advantage of it. He eased in with a few, patternless, scattered kisses, then turned a bit more assertive, tonguing a locale along the side of Zeke's neck that was especially sensitive. "You can tell me that if you want," he breathed.

Zeke muttered, "You're incredibly hot."

"Thank you," Casey replied, nipping at his jaw.

"Also — very polite."

The sexual aggressor in Casey was stoked now. He executed a neat acrobatic twist so that he was straddling Zeke's hips, using Zeke's thighs as a platform. He was wearing a feral expression, a half-grin that Zeke had a brief opportunity to view before he resumed his assault on Zeke's neck. His hands had fisted in Zeke's shirt, as much as ordering him to stay put, and Zeke was quite content — despite the awkward position that he was in and the potential for severe back injury — to let himself be handled. He closed his eyes and considered that it had been a difficult week altogether and how lovely to be cared for and attended to...how really fucking lovely.

Moving to nuzzle Zeke's ear, Casey breathed, "There's something I want to give you...Please."

"What?"

"A blow job."

"Wha — ?"

"A naked blow job."

"Naked...like...?"

"Like I take all my clothes off and you just take out your cock." Casey's sank his teeth into Zeke's lobe just to the point of discomfort, then turned it into a gentle sucking and laving. "Would you like that?"

Zeke fought to retain possession of some part of his mind. He certainly couldn't think of a single objection to the idea. "Okay, but I...I might want to practice it on you later."

Casey just licked his ear one last time and climbed to his feet, smiling like he was in possession of a secret. Zeke swung himself around and planted his feet on the floor; Casey put a hand flat on his chest. "Stay where you are," he said, echoing a moment that had reverberated with Zeke for over a month now.

Then the boy who usually tore his clothes off and threw them aside, who most times wouldn't even let Zeke enjoy the process of getting naked, executed what was very nearly a striptease.

Casey took his socks off first — a wise decision in Zeke's view — then started on his shirt, toying with the hem a little before pulling it slowly over his head. He broke off long enough to move in for a short but electric kiss. When he stepped back, it had transpired that Zeke had already unsnapped his jeans for him. The slight pink of self- consciousness on Casey's face made Zeke's aching cock twitch and leap in appreciation.

As Casey slithered out of his jeans and underwear, Zeke began to hum something vaguely sleazy, making them both giggle. "Stop it," Casey said, going completely red.

"I'm just providing a soundtrack — "

"Shut up."

Zeke complied.

Casey stepped out of his jeans, leaving them puddled on the floor so he was entirely nude — and, Zeke saw, quite aroused by the whole proceeding. He glided forward again, into Zeke's arms, between Zeke's parted knees. Despite his nakedness there was still a complete layer of clothing between them. Zeke was mesmerized by the paradox, struggling to experience Casey's skin through denim and cotton so he didn't resist when Casey pushed his arms down gently. He closed his eyes again, savouring it all in his mind: Casey, so entirely vulnerable in front of him right now, slowly unbuttoning Zeke's shirt but not removing it, putting his mouth against that place on Zeke's neck and suckling it until there was a burgeoning new mark for tomorrow, then moving down his chest, burning another mark here, and then here, until at last he was on his knees in front of Zeke.

Through a fog, Zeke heard: "Open it."

"Huh?" Zeke opened his eyes, looked down. Casey was looking up at him expectantly, with the most innocent expression he'd ever worn — or at least, it had to be one of the top five innocent expressions that Zeke had seen.

"Open your pants...take it out." Casey's breathing was quick and shallow, his voice low.

"Sh-shit," Zeke muttered. He unbuckled himself, pushing aside what he needed to so that the ache and hardness between his legs was exposed. He would have tried to remove his pants altogether except Casey smacked his hands out of the way, then leaned forward and almost swallowed him whole. His head fell back; so did his hands, just barely catching him before he fell.

The next few minutes dissolved into a haze of torture and delight. Casey was literally breathtaking, bringing Zeke to the brink several times with a pressure that would gradually get so intense it was like being stuck in one of those Chinese finger traps where pulling on it just made everything get tighter.

Just before what would surely be the last time, Zeke managed to recover some slight presence of mind and caught Casey by the shoulder before he could dive again. "No," he gasped. "No, I want...I want to finish inside you."

Casey's expression was exquisite in its complexity — want, guilt, and something kind of perplexed and impatient. He made a grab at the stash of supplies in the drawer, but Zeke grabbed him first.

"Never mind the condom," Zeke muttered. And maybe, never mind the lube. His cock was already slick with saliva and pre-cum.

"What — ? No, you — "

"You're clean. Anyway, it's my risk."

"Zeke — "

"Come up here."

But Casey didn't move. His eyes and mouth glistened as he knelt on the floor, and Zeke couldn't stand it, he needed to be inside him within the next minute, the next second if possible. He would do whatever it took.

"Okay," Zeke said, giving in. "Condom." He took Casey's hand and pulled him up, then got himself lubed and rubber-shrouded faster than he'd ever known he could, while Casey arranged himself over the end of the bed. Kneeling behind Casey's spread thighs, Zeke couldn't help but add, "But the risk is minimal. Most people show positive within three months of the last potential exposure."

"Most but not ah-all — " Casey choked as Zeke entered him. His hand was lying open on the bed; Zeke took it up and squeezed it hard, pressing forward. "Ninety...ninety- nine percent...show positive at six months."

Zeke was now buried inside his lover's ass, and the hot, almost painful tightness quickly pushed all vestiges of statistical information pertaining to the subject out of his head. He began to rock gently, trying for a pace that would let him hang on for a little while, long enough to give Casey some amount of satisfaction. "Fine," he growled.

"Fine," Casey gasped out in reply, his fingers winding themselves into the bedspread.

Then the world was only the glide of flesh on flesh and the pleasure-agony that was building in Zeke, the sweat slicking his skin, his and Casey's sweat and an uncomfortable burn around his knees. He was managing to keep some control, not letting it come on too fast — until a point when he shifted, widening his stance slightly and that changed the angle, drawing a moan out of Casey that made him lose himself entirely, slamming into the smooth heat again and again until he exploded there, vaguely hearing the mingled cries of approval in the distance.

He returned to himself lying half on the bed and half on Casey, still clutching his hand. He struggled all the way onto the bed, squirming and helping Casey along until they were both reasonably comfortable, lying in a panting, sweaty mess. Since they had already made a disaster of the bedspread, Zeke didn't feel the need to jump up to dispose of his condom, just leaving it balled up in a tissue for the moment. Fuck but he would be glad when condoms were no longer a necessity between them.

"This is going...to sound funny," Zeke puffed, still trying to catch his breath. "But...thank you...for letting me do that to you."

Casey snuggled in close, his usual move immediately after lovemaking. "Thank you for doing it," he said, far too seriously for Zeke's comfort.

There was something Zeke had realized one night when they were lying together, very much as they were lying together now. It was weeks ago, and it was a sickening thought that now sent a chill through him every single time they fucked — but only, always after. It was just the reality that he would never know if Casey was where he wanted to be or not. Casey would get turned on, he would come...sure he would, that was the almost inevitable result of two guys getting it on but it didn't really tell Zeke anything — because he lost control every time. When he was in the midst of it he could barely see, let alone pay attention to what was happening with Casey. He had the impression that Casey rarely spoke once Zeke was hammering his body, but if Casey did speak, Zeke would probably never hear him. He could be begging Zeke to stop and Zeke wouldn't know about it until it was all over.

"I loved that, when you stripped for me," Zeke said, attempting to casually introduce a topic that he knew had high strife potential. He stroked Casey's damp hair and added, "I hope...I wouldn't mind doing it that way again."

"How do you mean?" Casey asked, sounding distinctly apprehensive.

"Just...kinda slow."

The tension that had been absent from Casey's body just moments ago was renewing itself. "I can do slow," he said.

"I know, it's just...sometimes..."

"What?"

This would be another of those moments, the ones where Zeke opened his mouth to say something innocuous and...well, he was in it now. He finished, "Sometimes it seems like all you want is for me to nail you to the mattress."

Now the rapidly cooling, naked body in his arms was seized with shivers — from cold, yes, but surely other things as well. "I thought you liked to nail me to the mattress," Casey said, his breath hitching slightly.

"I do, Case." Sometimes so much that it frightened him. Sometimes Casey shook for half an hour afterward, and clung to Zeke so hard he left bruises. Sometimes he seemed unable to muster any kind of coherence for a while and Zeke would be convinced that this time they were well and truly lost. "I do, but you know...we don't have to fuck every time."

"We d-don't...always."

"Actually, mostly we do." Zeke couldn't believe that he was having this conversation, but he didn't know what else to say or do. Because they would not be stopping. Neither one of them could have that.

"I was going to suck you off but you said...you wanted..."

"I know what I said. I'm just trying to make a suggestion."

Silence.

"Okay," Casey said.

"Okay, what?"

Let it never be said that Casey was incapable of maintaining his own point of view when he wanted to. "Okay, you're making a suggestion."

Zeke decided it was time to cut his losses for today. "I'm hungry," he announced. "Let's clean up and eat and watch a movie. I don't want to think about anything serious for the rest of the night, and definitely not anything to do with parents."

Casey nodded. "Shower?"

"I think that would be advisable."

"Together?"

Zeke began the somewhat unpleasant process of ungluing himself and Casey. He knew he was not going to be eating any time soon, and that was...more than okay. "I wouldn't have it any other way," he said.

 

Saturday arrived way ahead of schedule and Casey found himself staring into the face of the next nightmare. "Why?" he moaned.

"It's the perfect time to do it," Sasha answered, waving at the brightly-decorated windows of Adam's Eve Hair Design — a name which made absolutely no sense to Casey at the moment. "You want to look good tonight, right?"

Casey turned squarely to face Sasha while his back crawled with the sense of people walking behind him and his brain spun with fragments of thoughts about now and later and what he would do or say if a casual touch turned into something more purposeful and how did you save yourself from an alien incursion without violating the rules of ordinary politeness or putting off someone's father...and if someone said Hey, science boy, can you give a breakdown of your nervous symptoms it would be Why, yes, Sasha, this week it's twenty-one percent normal everyday terror of the world at large, nineteen percent terror of Zeke riding off into the sunset with his school chum, fifteen percent terror of Dr. Yves and forty-five percent terror of tonight when I'm to meet Zeke's father except today right now that last factor is increasing at an exponential rate and what I deduce from this data is that the guy who said you should be careful about what you wish for was fucking bang-on.

"Kitten?" Sasha had taken his arm. "Breathe for me."

He breathed...onetwothreefourfive...see, he was breathing. He could do this. He had to do this, because he was really here for Zeke and Sasha, today was all about Zeke and Sasha and what they needed, it had to be or Casey would turn around and make a screaming streak back to their apartment.

And apparently, one of Sasha's needs was to transform Casey into a Gay Superstar before tonight. Casey gulped, "What are you going to do to me?"

Sasha was gazing back at Casey with imploring brown eyes. "Me? Nothing, kitten. I'm not doing anything to you. Geesh, you'd think I was going to torture you or something."

"But what — what do — why not just a haircut?"

Someone brushed his arm. He heard himself make a noise like a muffled grunt of terror as he involuntarily twitched closer to Sasha. It was go in or stay out here amidst the throng now. "Can we just go inside?" he asked, shivering.

Sasha looked momentarily jubilant, then sympathetic. He gestured to the door, and followed Casey in, guarding him without looking like he meant to be guarding him. Sasha was always good about that, finding ways to reassure and comfort without being obvious — only when required though, because he did prefer obvious comfort and he did it very well.

It was Adam who greeted them; naturally, Sasha would have asked for him specifically when making the appointment. "Hiya, honey," Adam said to Casey, and when Casey didn't reply there was a nervous pause before he commented, "Oh, goodness but you do need a trim." He glanced down over the calendar in front of him. "And it says here you're going to get a colour today?"

"That's the plan," Sasha replied.

"Wait," Casey said. "Please." He unpacked his own big guns, hitting Sasha with a substantial pout. Sasha's brows drew together; he gestured for Casey to come away a few feet.

"What's wrong, kitten? Is it the money? I told you, it's a gift from me to you so don't worry about it."

"But..."

"But?"

"What if I like my hair the colour it is now?"

"I wasn't going to propose that we change it completely, just put some highlights in, give it some texture."

"Won't that take hours?"

Sasha got a suspicious tilt to his head. "You actually know something about hair colouring?"

"When my mom gets her hair done it always takes hours."

"Is that your main objection? That it will take too long?"

"I..." Casey had let himself be dragged here by Sasha at the suggestion that Zeke's father would think less of him if his hair wasn't decently trimmed — and he could admit that he was starting to look a little shaggy but he didn't want to spend one more second here than he had to. This whole hair colouring thing seemed unnecessary. Even cutting his hair wasn't a matter of great importance, if he was completely honest about it.

Sasha put a hand on his shoulder. "I know it's uncomfortable, kitten, but didn't your doctor say that we're supposed to help by pushing you a bit here and there?"

He looked at the floor and muttered, "Thought going out for a fancy dinner was enough for one day."

Sasha heaved a martyred sigh. "It's up to you, Casey. Call me shallow, but it makes me happy to see you looking your best. Do it for mama?"

Casey grumbled, "You should have been somebody's mother."

"If you really don't want to do it, I'm not going to force you."

Casey tallied the potential threat in the salon. On a scale of one to ten, it was around a five — not terrible but not entirely secure either, and there was a fairly high degree of gratuitous physical contact in places like this.

But on the other hand, he hadn't done much to make Sasha happy lately. Not that Sasha was miserable, not that Casey could see. Sasha was content, perhaps, but he was not by any means bubbling over with joy. Jerry had made some difference, but still...Sasha was not in love. Casey had seen Sasha in love a couple of times before and this was not it. Giving a friend a make-over was not on a par, it seemed like a minor thing by comparison...but it did give Casey the power to make Sasha a little more than content for a while.

"Okay...let's do it," he consented.

Sasha's smile instantly made Casey glad of his decision. Terror, misery and potential destruction now lay ahead of him, but it would be worth it.

Adam actually hopped up and down and clapped his hands to hear the news. He guided Casey to sit at his station and began playing with his hair in that way that hair stylists always did while they brainstormed. "So some highlights...but you know, your natural colour is pretty dark, what if we changed it a bit...just for something different?"

"Not blond," Sasha said, before Casey could speak.

"Sure, okay," Adam replied. "But you know what I was thinking? What about a nice deep auburn base?"

"Um..." Casey said.

"It will still be mostly brown, but darker than your natural shade with red tones — and then we'll take some of it out on top so there will be some red and orange highlights — and if I had time I would do some black, just some chunks around the nape — "

Sasha shook his head, but Casey hadn't missed the way his eyes started to glitter while Adam was speaking. He said quickly, "Okay."

It sounded like Sasha was holding his breath as he said, "That really will take hours, kitten."

Yeah, so it would just have to be the kind of day that was going to leave Casey a strung-out shell of a human being; once he resigned himself to that fact, anything was possible. "It's all right," he said, curbing a shiver.

Sasha was getting brighter by the second. "Do you like the idea, though?"

"It's kinda...I dunno..."

"Funky?" Sasha suggested.

"Yeah...I guess."

"It's not as wild as it sounds," Adam said. "You'll see...it'll be funky and classy." He ruffled the back of Casey's hair while Casey fought not to scrunch his shoulders and twitch him off. "And what did you want to do for the cut? What about just a little trim — because, you know, it's long enough that we could just shape it into a sort of messy Leo DiCaprio thing."

"All right," Casey said.

Quite stunned now, Sasha proposed, "How about a little eyebrow waxing, then?"

"Um..."

"Or ear piercing?"

Casey received an image of himself strapped down in a chair while two Adams took up positions on either side of his head, each wielding a big stapler. "You're kidding, right?"

"Yep. I'm completely and utterly kidding — unless you're willing to consider it, in which case I'm deadly serious."

Casey peered in the mirror, trying to see himself with earrings. That was him, with that same face and body that confronted him every time he looked. He was strange-looking, there was just no escaping it. He'd been told enough times to see how it was true. His eyes were too big and his mouth was too small. He looked like a child, certainly not a man. He would have been lying if he said he didn't have some inkling of how Zeke saw him, but that didn't make it any less bizarre. Dr. Yves had accused him of taking the judgments of the world in general as truth, but she was mistaken. It wasn't that he thought people were right about him, it was just that it didn't matter if they were right or not, because they always acted as if they were.

"Kitten. It's hardly worth obsessing over."

"Huh?" he mumbled, blinking.

"Ear piercing? It's not a major life decision."

Casey stared at himself some more. He said, not really to Sasha, "Doesn't seem like me."

In the mirror, Sasha considered him and said, "Maybe you could tell me what that means?"

He shook his head. "I don't know."

"Hmmm...well. We'll leave the piercing for another day."

Casey floated through the next three hours in a near-trance. He had to, or he would have slapped Adam's hands off, grabbed the nearest pair of scissors and hidden in the cloakroom, brandishing them at anyone who came near; he spent a good chunk of his time in the chair braiding a long narrative in which he did exactly that. Sasha didn't do much to disturb his ruminations, staying close and smiling at him often, occasionally trying to engage him in his natter with Adam but not pushing it when he didn't respond. Two hours in, Sasha had to go ten feet away to the reception desk, to call Zeke and let him know that they were taking longer than expected. Casey followed Sasha there and back with his eyes, hating that he couldn't be the one to talk to Zeke. At the time, he was sitting under a dryer going deaf while his hair was cooked in tin foil. His ears felt singed, and there were a few terrible moments when he thought he was going to burst into tears if someone didn't take that thing off his head.

Headline: Casey Connor needs a nap.

There was yet another stage to put in the black colour around his neck and ears, but finally after nearly three hours the transformation was complete. Casey found himself staring at himself, bemused, not sure what to think. Maybe this had been a mistake.

"What is it?" Sasha asked softly. He leaned forward, putting his head on Casey's shoulder so he could be eye to eye in the mirror. Adam was off retrieving his razor and some other equipment that someone had borrowed from his station. "What's wrong? You don't like it?"

"I..."

"Tell me."

"I look..."

"Mm-hmm?"

"Gay, I guess."

Sasha grinned. "You look like you, kitten, only more now. If someone wants to label you, that's their damage. Personally, I think you're gorgeous."

Casey didn't answer.

"What do you want to do?" Sasha said vehemently. "Shave your head? You're still going to look the way you look, kitten. So you have two choices...Either fight it and be totally obvious that you're fighting it so you'll be like that Spadoni with his comb over, or go with it and make everyone just deal with it. You follow?"

Casey followed. He didn't have much choice when Sasha got on that particular soapbox, and he couldn't ignore the logic in it either. He did look how he looked, and there would always be a contingent of guys who were into it — Zeke being the current president and ringleader.

It was almost three o'clock when they got back — a paltry four hours left before their reservation at Sojourn detonated. Zeke was out, getting smokes the note said.

"I have to get going to work soon," Sasha said, "But there's something I want to give you."

"You mean something else?"

That didn't come out the way Casey had intended, and Sasha's expression was disconcerted, verging on hurt. "Well..."

Casey grasped the cuff of Sasha's shirt with his fingers. "I'm sorry. It's just you've given me so much already."

"You're welcome, kitten. C'mere...I've got this thing..." Sasha was nudging Casey in the direction of his bedroom as he talked. "Now, it's not anything fancy. I just saw it and thought it would go really nicely with that cotton shirt your mom got you, you know the one with the neat sort of Indian embroidery?"

"Mmm."

"The one that I haven't seen you wear yet?" Sasha hinted.

"Been too cold."

Sasha went to his dresser and retrieved something off the top of it. "You have a couple more pounds on you now for insulation and it isn't all that bad out there today...here we are."

It was a little plastic baggie that Sasha was holding up. Spying the contents, Casey said, "You're giving me jewelry?"

"Now don't get excited, sweetheart. It's cheap, I got it from that place the next block over, what's it called...Fran's?"

"Freda's."

"That one." Sasha unsealed the bag and pulled it out. It was a braided black cord embracing a stone piece the size of Casey's thumb, decorated with a rune-like symbol. "It means ‘transformation'...loosely translated."

Casey was sure that his eyes and throat wouldn't have been quite so clotted right then if he hadn't been quite so tired from the salon ordeal. "Thank you," he said hoarsely.

"It's my honour, kitten."

"Sasha?"

"Yes, kitten?"

"I'd get my eyebrows waxed for you."

Sasha's solemn expression crumpled into a laugh. "You..." He mimed a smack upside Casey's head. "Brat!"

"I'm serious — " Casey replied, ducking.

"Don't tempt me, I own a pair of tweezers. Now if I had more time — "

"I said waxing, not tweezing."

"Okay..."

"Rather have one big hurt, you know?"

"As opposed to a bunch of little ones...You're one of those pull-the-bandaid-off- all-at- once people, aren't you?"

"I think so."

Sasha hugged Casey's head against him. "So no tweezing...listen, I need to get going to work soon. I'm going to try to pop out for a visit tonight but don't be disappointed if it doesn't happen. If it gets busy they don't always let us take a break."

"Kay."

"You going to have a nap?"

"Mmm."

"Good idea. Get refreshed for tonight."

Casey clutched Sasha when he tried to move away, startling a bit of a grunt out of him. "Sasha...I'm scared."

Sasha obligingly hugged him a bit more. "Aw, kitten...don't be. It's just dinner and it'll be fine."

"Dinner with Zeke's father."

"What gives you the impression that Zeke cares so much?"

"He cares. He pretends like he doesn't but he does."

"Yes," Sasha sighed. "He does. But he cares more about you, so he's not going to hide you."

"Sasha," Casey gulped. "You don't know...how...how much I..."

"What, kitten?"

"I fuck up. I fuck it all up."

"Shh, shh...stop being silly now, I command it." Sasha rocked Casey from side to side. "You're tired and once you've recharged you'll feel much better about this. And what's the worst thing that can happen anyway?"

"Don't ask."

"Come on, kitten."

"I'll embarrass Zeke...and the more I worry about it happening, the more likely it will be true."

"Well, what if you take a Xanax before you go?"

"Then I'll definitely embarrass him. I'll be face down in my soup."

"Hey." Sasha captured Casey's face in two hands, cupping it gently. "I'm going to let you in on a little secret. Zeke likes you. He likes you a lot, and he asked you to be there because he enjoys your company. It's that simple. None of that other stuff matters so I don't want to hear you talking about anyone being embarrassed by you anymore. All right?"

Casey nodded.

"I'll see you later." Sasha smacked a kiss flat on his mouth, then nudged him gently out the door, saying, "Sorry, I need to get ready and you need to sleep...damn, I wish I could be here to see Zeke's face when he sees you!"

So did Casey, because the reaction might be something quite other than what Sasha seemed to be expecting. Zeke was a guy's guy, which meant that while it was okay to care a bit about how you looked, it was not okay to look like you cared about how you looked. He might just see Casey and say, "What'd you do that for?" and Casey wouldn't have much of an answer.

Now he was veering in the direction of a panic attack, he had enough experience to know it now and he walked himself to his room, standing in the middle of it, keeping a hand over his heart to reassure himself that it was still beating — laughable, since it was going like a programmed backbeat. "I'mokayi'mokayi'mokay..." He'd discovered that he wanted to be on his feet when he was panicking, like walking around necessarily refuted the assumption that he was dying. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Xanax wasn't an option. He counted five breaths that were less fast if not actually slow onetwothreefourfive and sat down on the computer chair. He could do this. His vital signs would resume something like normal function as long as he didn't think about anything. It wasn't cognitive therapy, but it was close.

"Sixseven...eight...nine...twelve...forty-six...a billion..."

Breathing could make a difference, he knew that. It had last Thursday. He'd started out that session almost as freaked out as he had been on Monday, and she again took him through that infinite, agonizing count to ten, forcing himself to slow the intake of oxygen into his body, lowering the rate of adrenaline production so his heart didn't race and his brain didn't get hazy with counterproductive messages about how he was having a stroke or a coronary episode. So the book had it right...Hooray for science.

Then Dr. Yves had asked him what was upsetting him — or what was upsetting him the most at that place and moment, and he spilled about the looming dinner with Zeke's father. She had used it as an opportunity to start practicing her cognitive-behavioural method, trying to give him tips about how to handle the dinner. To him, there was something very obvious about the message think anxious and you'll be anxious and he had told her so. She had replied that, common sense or not, applying it seemed to require a lot of practice and the key to making it work was doing the mood logs; by the time they got through the book, he was expected to have a stack of them about six feet high.

Towards the end of the session, she had switched onto another tack. "Did you ask him?"

"Did I...ask...?"

"You were going to think about asking Zeke to come to therapy with you. Did you decide about that?"

"Oh...no."

"Does it make you nervous, the idea of bringing Zeke here?"

"Of course," Casey had sighed. So many questions for him to answer all the time. Zeke's questions, her questions...Did you eat, Casey, are you okay, where are you now, did you fall asleep, what lie are you going to use with her, Casey...Can we do it slow, Casey...

"You look tired, Casey. Have you been sleeping?"

"Yes, only...sometimes I fall asleep too early and then I'm awake in the middle of the night. I'm so tired but still I can't sleep. Then sometimes I just totally crash."

"What do you do when you wake up in the middle of the night?"

"Um...dunno. Watch TV sometimes. Mostly I just lay there."

"They say it's better to get up and do something if you're having trouble falling asleep, as opposed to tossing and turning. If you get up, you'll start to feel tired again."

"Okay."

"Is there anything else you need to talk about today, Casey, before we run out of time?"

"You're really not going to ask me about...the stuff from last week?"

"No, Casey. I told you, this is your therapy. We'll do it the way you want it. There are times when things go on the backburner...until you're ready."

"I'm never going to be able to talk about it. Just so you know."

"I hear you, Casey. And I repeat that you will never be forced to talk about anything. That doesn't mean that I won't ask you, though."

"You sound like Zeke now."

"Do I? How so?"

"He's always so reasonable. The more out of control I get the more reasonable he gets."

"Does that bother you?"

"No."

"You told me that Zeke is basically forcing you to come here. You seemed angry about that last time."

"Even if I was, what good would it do?"

"What do you mean? Don't you think you have the right to express these things to Zeke?"

"I can't."

"Haven't you ever gotten mad at Zeke?"

"Once — "

"Yes?"

" — but that was something major. I tried to hold it in but...I just lost control after a while."

"How did you feel after that happened?"

"Terrible."

"How so?"

"I felt ugly...like I just showed him what I was really like and I couldn't take it back. I can't let that happen again...I am ugly...can't let Zeke see it."

"But you blew up at him and he's still around, isn't he?"

"He forgave me...he's always forgiving me. I do stuff to him, he won't forgive me if I do it too many times...anyway, it's hopeless, he hasn't talked to his father in three years and he just called out of the blue and wanted to have dinner...Zeke asked me to come with him but I don't think I can do it, I'm going to be freaking out there and Zeke will be embarrassed and his father — his father — "

"Breathe, Casey."

He breathed.

He breathed like his life depended on it.

 

It was inconceivable to Zeke that he had actually been contemplating quitting smoking, he must have been having a psychotic break at the time. As he took his time returning to the apartment with his fresh package of smokes — the sixth this week and it was really getting absurd that he insisted on buying them one at a time — Zeke ran down his checklist of emotions.

Guilt, safely stowed. Casey had agreed to come with him and he would take that at face value. Casey Connor, most infamous citizen of the town of Herrington, was appearing arm-in-arm with Zeke for dinner with Zeke's estranged father, and it was just a fluke if that had the ring of poetic justice. Zeke couldn't dwell upon how satisfying that was to him personally or he'd be paralyzed.

Anger at said father, sufficiently repressed. He shouldn't have felt anything about the man, but seeing as he did and that what he felt was anger, he would have to be careful to restrain it for Casey's well-being. If it meant something to Casey that his boyfriend have a functioning relationship with his parents — well, Rachel was out of the fucking question, but he would tolerate Jacob. The man might be aloof, avoidant and arrogant, but at least he was sane.

Anxiety about this meeting, fully contained. He really didn't give a fuck so there was nothing to be nervous about. Except that Casey was going to be nervous because nervous was what Casey did, so Zeke needed to take care and not push him. Casey had just spent three hours on a public outing with Sasha, and now another was pending. It would have been a stretch for Casey even before Zeke's father injected himself in their lives.

Excitement about tonight, unlikely and unseemly, and completely stifled by now. Otherwise he might have allowed himself to look forward to a night out with his boyfriend. They hadn't done anything like this in a very long time. Never, actually.

Sasha was going down the stairs from their apartment as Zeke was about to head up, wearing his customary white tunic and colourful scarf. Zeke waited at the bottom for him, assuming that he would have some advice to impart. He was, after all, Sasha. He wouldn't be able to help himself.

"Casey's having a little snooze," Sasha informed him.

"Good."

Sasha was now standing adjacent to Zeke, both feet firmly planted on the ground.

"Say what you have to say," Zeke invited.

Sasha pressed his lips together for a moment, considering, then said, "Be good."

"That's all? Be good?"

"I think that about covers it, yes." Sasha almost took a step; he stopped, and added, "And if it doesn't work out with your father, make a point of telling Casey it's not his fault."

"Why would I — ?" Zeke decided to be gracious; it would be good practice for later. "Yes, of course."

"And be sure to keep him in the conversation."

"Anything else?"

"Say please and thank you. That always helps."

"Sasha, I think I can manage."

"I know, I know...I'll see you later. Enjoy yourselves tonight. I recommend the pecan crusted venison with dried blueberry chutney."

"Thanks," Zeke replied.

With a nod, Sasha moved on.

Zeke didn't call out when he entered the apartment. He moved silently to the bedroom, curious to see what Sasha had done to Casey, but Casey was nearly buried in his afghan. All Zeke could see of Casey was the top of his head, with a hint of something different going on with his hair colour. Zeke squinted at it, trying to decide what he thought. Well, he'd get the full effect later. He turned, intending to go up to the roof and get a little chain smoking under his belt, fortifying himself for later...The restaurant would be non- smoking, of course...

"Zeke?" Casey's voice was muffled.

"Yeah. Go ahead and sleep, Case."

"Lie down with me?"

Zeke shook his head regretfully. "I can't stay still, Case. I'll be around." He closed the door halfway and struck a careful balance between restful quiet and comforting background noise as he made his way to the roof.

As he smoked and paced, he found himself thinking about some of the scenes he had witnessed between his parents over ten years ago, and he stomped those down viciously. They were no longer relevant to anything. They were the past.

Never mind the quitting-smoking lapse, he must have been having a psychotic break when he agreed to this dinner. He couldn't think of a single, viable reason for it. He was putting Casey though an ordeal to prove — to prove what? That he was happy, that he didn't need his father, that he had tried to organize his life in direct contradiction to what Jacob Tyler believed in...meaningless, all of it. If he didn't need the man, he shouldn't be having dinner with him, and he should call this off right now. The only thing left was curiosity, and that was scarcely sufficient to justify all this turbulence.

He went downstairs and turned on the TV, but found himself sitting holding the remote, not even knowing what he was looking at. It had to be time for Casey to wake up. Dinner wasn't until seven but there were things to do; in fact, Zeke had some ideas that could be quite time consuming. He turned off the TV, leaving it unwatched this time.

Casey was exactly as he had left him, an afghan-sized lump. Zeke lay down beside it, carefully peeling back the covering. He still didn't know what to think of the hair colour. He put his knuckles against Casey's cheek and caressed from just beneath his eye to his chin. Casey barely reacted. Zeke tickled the skin just below the cheekbone. He blew air in Casey's face and finally Casey scowled and tried to rub him off.

"Zeke."

"Yup."

"Sleeping."

"Time to get up."

"No."

Zeke raised his eyebrows. "You wanna debate this one?" He let his finger explore a bit, feeling delicately along the lips, teasing them just slightly apart, just letting the pad of his finger experience the soft warmth. He hunkered down so he could kiss it, sampling a bit deeper with his tongue, just tasting, thinking that it was the best thing he was going to taste all night and it was such a tragedy that Casey almost had to be asleep to let him take so much time with one little thing.

Casey's lashes were trembling against Zeke's face. His mouth began to respond, to move. Zeke put his hand on Casey's arm to hold him in place but Casey moved in closer, hooking a leg over Zeke's and sliding his hands, his arms up to the elbow under Zeke's shirt while he drank from Zeke's lips. The lazy, somnolent arousal of a moment ago spiked up into something else, devouring all the air between them.

"Look at me," Zeke whispered. "Look."

He was unzipping Casey, and as Casey obeyed, meeting his gaze, he took Casey's semi-erect cock in his hand. He saw creases form on Casey's face, deepening into an expression not unlike pain. Casey tried to kiss him again but he denied him, pulling his mouth out of reach.

"No. Keep looking at me. Eyes open."

He stroked the tip of his erection with his thumb. Casey bowed back, pushing into his hand. "Z-Zeke," he stuttered. His fingers brushed Zeke's groin, stupid at the moment, unfocused.

"Just feel...look..."

He was working Casey's erection, slowly at first then stepping up the pace, examining and categorizing every twitch, every line, every change in hue in the eyes that were scant inches from his.

"That's good," Zeke said softly. Inside his clothes, he was aroused to the point of pain.

"Zeke?" Casey gulped. "Will you...?"

"Will I...what?" Zeke said although he knew good and damned well, and maybe it was cruel to taunt Casey, but he was starting to know this feeling too well...Wanting to do a thing and fear at how much he wanted to do it, knowing that he would do it even though he still couldn't be sure that he wasn't hurting Casey every single time. He tried to be loving, he tried to be tender and Casey just wouldn't have it, or he would lay there and endure it, or he would go along with it, biding his time — like he was doing now maybe.

Zeke wrenched at Casey's jeans with his one free hand, forcing them down with his underwear around his hips, just uncovering the round swell of his ass. With the same hand he began to stroke Casey's backside, teasing him gently, not quite touching him where he wanted to be touched while he still worked his other hand on Casey's cock, in no hurry to bring him off.

"What if there's no fucking...today?" Zeke said, hearing himself sound almost angry. This was entirely perfect, holding Casey like this, having him rumpled and desperate and straining and mumbling little bits and pieces of words into Zeke's neck. "What if...what would happen then?"

"D-don't...have to..." The end of this was a kind of question. Casey's mouth found his in a soundless, open-mouthed cry as his come squirted over Zeke's belly and on his hand. His hands clawed briefly at Zeke, still between his shirt and his skin. Moist exhalation infused Zeke's mouth.

There were several moments of hiatus and then Casey was wriggling out of the rest of his clothes. Zeke closed his eyes on the pretext that he was resisting but he knew how this would go, and he didn't need it any less than Casey. It felt like the greatest moment of mutual understanding they ever had was when he was pounding Casey to pieces.

Shortly, he was naked too, lying on his side and Casey had turned onto his side as well, putting his back to Zeke's chest. Zeke shook his head; at least this time they were going to do this his way. "No," he said. "On your back, please."

Casey cast a look over his shoulder, a quick glance with a question that didn't get finished. He settled as Zeke asked, looking up at him with querulous demand in his eyes. Zeke fumbled in the bedside drawer for a condom and lube — okay, there were the condoms, but where was the lube, he was not finding it, not — of course, he had left it under his pillow somewhere. He trashed the bed a bit, hunting for it. By the time he had it in his hand, Casey was grinning.

"What?" Zeke said.

"You're smooth, man."

"Yes, I am," Zeke agreed, straight-faced. He put one knee between Casey's, where a space had been made for him, pushing one leg up and aside. Casey squirmed and wriggled into a slightly different position with a better angle for Zeke.

Sometimes there was no way to make this business of lubrication seem like anything but inconvenient pragmatism, but Zeke made it as sexy as he could, taking his time, using his fingers to bring Casey back to a state of complete arousal. Necessary or not, he loved to do this, to watch Casey's eyes film over with mindless urgency. Then there would be no looking away, Casey was completely in his hands and there was no breaking eye contact as Zeke lowered himself and pressed inside him, again taking his time to let them both adjust. It seemed like forever before he was home.

"Case?" he whispered. He got back some kind of answer, he thought. He started to move, not wanting it to be over any time soon. He lost himself in the feeling, in moving and feeling and not being anywhere but here and the thought occurred to him briefly that if he was feeling so much more all the time, if he was just dripping with emotion these days, it was kind of Casey's fault except Casey had made himself the cure at the same time and if there was no Casey around then Zeke was really going to be in trouble. Then the thought was gone and he had the presence of mind to take hold of Casey's erection and bring him to the end just as he was emptying himself. He crumbled and fell on top of Casey, then rolled off to the side where he wouldn't suffocate him.

Once he had his breath back there was the usual messiness to be taken care, taking him away from the bed and Casey for a second. It was when he returned that he caught sight of what he had missed until then.

Terror took a double handful of his guts as he flung himself down on the bed, grabbing Casey by the shoulders. Casey's body was willing and lax, but it seemed like he was looking through Zeke into an impossible distance, farther than he'd ever gone before. His mouth was moving slightly, but there was no sound.

"Oh, fuck," Zeke said. "Fuck fuck fuck."

Casey twitched a little, so maybe, just maybe, please let it not be as bad as he thought —

"You okay?" Zeke whispered. "Case...? Please be okay."

There was a series of mumbles, and eyes shuddering open and closed a few times.

"Talk to me now, Case. I need you to talk to me."

Casey moved sluggishly, trying to get closer to Zeke, to make him wrap him up. "That was..." Casey murmured, almost audibly.

Zeke held his shoulders tightly to keep him where he could see his eyes. "What?"

"...awesome..."

Zeke tried out a laugh. It was okay, it had to be. It had to.

"So good..." Casey went on in a voice that seemed completely devoid of any emotion. "...so quiet..."

"Quiet?"

Casey shrugged off Zeke's hands with some insistence and pushed in against his body. His mouth was pursed in determination as he found one of Zeke's arms and placed it firmly over his shoulder. Content then, he said, "In my head."

The looming worry instantly grew back to the size of real fear and fell on Zeke, crushing him. "What do you mean, Case?"

"Just that...you took it all out of me, just like..." Casey stopped.

Zeke waited for him to finish. "Just like — like what?" he said at last.

"Nothing."

Zeke knew he was being lied to, not that Casey was trying very hard to hide it. He consolidated his hold on Casey, fear still racing in him, making his heart pound and his hands shake. He wasn't doing harm, it wasn't, it couldn't be wrong... "Please tell me you talk about this with Yves."

"Talk...about what?"

"About..." Zeke faltered. "About how you are...about sex."

"How I am," Casey echoed. He sat up, breaking away from Zeke and presenting him with his back.

"Case, you just about zoned on me a minute ago. Am I supposed to ignore that?"

"Why do you have to stop ignoring it now?" Casey said, sounding entirely possessed by that wild, out of control rage that occasionally frothed to the surface if Zeke was lucky or foolhardy or stupid enough to trigger it.

Zeke tried to touch him, to get him back so they could have a reasonable discourse about this. "It's not like it hasn't been on my mind — "

Casey twisted in Zeke's direction but didn't quite look at him. "You always have to say things," he accused. He pushed Zeke's arms away from him, shoving himself to the side of the bed.

"Where are you going?" Zeke wanted to know.

"Where do I always go?"

"Casey — "

At his plea Casey turned, his eyes grieving and furious. "You always have to — say things," he repeated, and was leaving the room.

The bathroom door slammed.

Zeke could have gotten in the bathroom somehow, talked his way into the shower... kicked his way in maybe, or at least waited until Casey came out and pounced on him. He did none of those things. He got half-dressed and went up to the roof for a cigarette. As the delicious, sedating chemicals flooded his body, he made a resolution — he might be finished saying things for today, but he was not finished saying things.

When he came back down he was much calmer, and he noted the time on the microwave as 6:14. If they were still going to dinner he would need to shower and get ready immediately. He saw that the bathroom door was open, while the bedroom door was now almost closed. He went to it and called, "Case?"

Silence.

"Case, maybe we should call off this dinner."

Silence.

"Case?"

Fuck this nonsense, it was his bedroom too. He pushed the door open, quite aware of what he would find...It would be the usual, remorse and self-hatred, fear that Zeke would ditch Casey because of this one outburst, desperate offers to make amends in any way that Zeke wanted, offers that Zeke would patiently turn down.

In the advancing dim, Zeke could see that Casey was naked, sitting on the edge of the bed. His hair was dry and intact, exactly as it had been before the shower; he could be ready to go in five minutes if he was going but he was hunched and still, his head hanging like it was too much for him to hold up. "Case? It's okay — "

"I'm — " was all that Casey got out. He lifted his head then, so Zeke could watch his demeanour go from flat to full-out weeping in the space of a heartbeat. The violence of the sobs was unexpected, especially when they quickly died to a dull silence and Casey just huddled in Zeke's shadow, shuddering and spilling tears and not speaking at all, not even delivering the normal litany of apologies. This was not the scene that Zeke had written. This was something else, and it was brought to his attention yet again that he was really in over his head with no fucking clue what he was doing or how to break the surface.

Casey confessed suddenly, "Love — you."

It would have been nice if he had made that seem like good news.

"I — " Casey choked. "Wanted to do this for you, knew — I — I would wreck it — with your father — Don't want — to hurt you."

"Of course you don't."

"Want to be there for you — go with you f-for dinner with your dad — if you — still want — "

"You mystify me at times, you know that? Of course I want you there but — "

"I won't embarrass you — I won't — "

"Whoa, listen...listen. All I mean is I don't want to go if you're not up to it."

"No — I'll be good, don't leave me here."

"Casey." Zeke had to take hold of Casey's chin and force it up to look at him. "I'm not going without you, okay? What I want to know is if you're up to this."

Casey trying to pull himself together right then was something to see. "I c-can do it...please..."

"Okay." Zeke swiped at a tear with his thumb. He wished he had the imagination and the time to spare to come up with some profound statement to console Casey, but he didn't. He said, "Stop crying."

Casey nodded, grabbing Zeke's wrist in a pitiful ploy to keep him near. "Yes," he said, still nodding. "Sorry."

"Shh, no sorry now, it's okay. I have to take a quick shower. You get dressed, okay?"

Casey nodded again. "Sorr — "

Zeke put a finger over Casey's lips. "What did I just say?"

"You s-said...okay...okay..." Casey got up in a jerky motion, meandering in the direction of the closet. "I'm okay..."

It was with some apprehension that Zeke went for his shower, but he had to; he still reeked of sex and he hadn't even shaved yet today. While he scrubbed himself down, he wrestled with something that he had missed entirely until this moment. All along he had been thinking of this as a favour from Casey to him, and it was that, it was an ordeal that Casey was willing to endure for Zeke, yes — but this was something that Casey was doing for his own sake too. It just hadn't occurred to Zeke, even though it should have, that the issues were more complex than Casey had let on. Casey's fantasy of being adopted by his lover's family was a little more than a simple plea for inclusion. Whether or not Casey had actually been an obstacle between father and son in the past, he was desperate to not be one now. He needed the event to go well, a lot more than Zeke did in fact — and so it would, even if Zeke had to threaten his father with bodily harm.

"Okay," he chanted as he cleansed himself. "Okay. Let's do this."

He stepped out of the shower with a renewed purpose. He shaved. He took the time to make sure his hair was a step up from presentable. When he got back to the bedroom, there was an unpleasant and irrational twinge of fear upon seeing that Casey wasn't there. "Case!" he shouted.

"I'm — getting ready!" came a thready reply, from the direction of the kitchen.

"Okay!" Zeke returned and repeated it to himself: "Okay...I need clothing now."

He put on his one and only suit with a red, open-collared silk shirt. He drew the line at wearing a tie — it was dinner, not a business meeting. The suit was new, and he knew it was stylish; Delilah had picked it out for him last fall.

He went out to the hallway, where Casey was already standing in the entryway with his shoes on, ready to go. "We're late," Casey said, chewing his lip.

Zeke couldn't respond right away, because...he couldn't respond. His tongue had fused with his palate.

Casey was art made flesh. Not because of any one thing, just...all of him. He was wearing a long-sleeved artsy kind of shirt, with slightly flared cuffs almost covering his hands. The shirt was a deep, unerring blue, and collarless, with an open squared notch at the throat. The hem, sleeve and neckline were embroidered with a pattern that was very eastern in flavour. The pants were black, artificial leather — not real leather because Casey didn't have the means — and form-hugging but still suitable for parental eyes. He was wearing jewellery, too. A single pendant, something kind of rustic and earthy and not unmasculine, it was nestled just at the hollow of the collarbone. And there was the new hairthat Zeke had looked at but not really appreciated earlier. It was funky and soft at the same time. There was a darkness to it that made Casey's skin stand out while the lighter shades of red and blond delicately framed his face. Still haunting him, the angst of half an hour ago was the final touch.

And this — this was peering at Zeke like he was afraid Zeke wouldn't want to be seen in public with him.

"It's — " Zeke's voice cracked. "Never mind, so we'll be a little late."

He couldn't not take Casey's hand, and that was when he discovered that Casey was shaking all over with fine tremors. "If you need to leave you'll tell me," Zeke stated.

"Yes," Casey agreed quickly.

"I won't let anything happen to you."

Casey gave a shuddery sigh. They both knew that Zeke couldn't prevent the kinds of things that Casey feared, not really, but saying it still meant something.

They took a cab to the restaurant since Sasha had the car and in any case Zeke wanted to drink without compunction. Casey sat beside Zeke staring sightlessly out the window while Zeke stared at his profile. He noticed that Casey had his hand in his left jacket pocket and recalled that he kept a stash of pills there. Zeke tapped Casey's arm; Casey started and saw the offering of an open hand. He took his own out and held onto Zeke's, tighter and tighter as they got closer to the restaurant while his breath got fast and shallow.

The car came to a stop in front of Sojourn. Zeke definitely had something fluttery in his stomach now. He lifted Casey's hand in his and pressed it against his chest, getting his attention. "Case...this dinner...it doesn't have to mean that much."

Casey stared back at him. "Yes, it does," he said slowly.

"But what if it doesn't?"

There was no reply.

"Uh...that's fourteen-sixty," the cabbie said.

Zeke let go of Casey and paid the man while Casey climbed out of the cab. On the sidewalk, Zeke's hand rejoined Casey's and they walked in together.

It seemed quite probable that Casey's anxieties had begun to infect Zeke's brain too; there was elegant, contemporary decor, wood and crystal everywhere, even a waterfall, but he could barely take it in, he was so conscious of the numbers of people and the potential threat they represented. The restaurant was middling in size but full of waiters, bus people and customers — which included the small line-up of people waiting to be seated by the host. Zeke glanced down and saw that Casey was eying up each of them and not making any effort to disguise his distrust. Zeke draped his arms over Casey's shoulders, hugged him close and whispered in his ear, "We're calm."

"Welcome to Sojourn. May I take your coats?" The host gave Casey a once- over that lingered several moments too long for Zeke's comfort. He decided to give the man the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps Casey was skirting the edges of the dress code...except Sasha wouldn't have let that happen and there were plenty of men not wearing suit jackets.

"We're a bit late," Zeke informed the host as he and Casey handed over their gear. "There should be a reservation for Tyler but I think he's already here."

"Oh, yes," the man said. "The other two from your party are already seated. Right this way."

The man said two...other two. It made no sense, it was scarcely possible but if his mother was here he was going to turn around and walk out —

It was not his mother. It was some woman Zeke had never seen before. He absorbed the very short blond hair, tanned skin, perfectly toned body, before turning to face his father, who had stood up to greet them. Zeke remembered a somewhat doughy, puffy body and a moustache. Now Jacob was trim and healthy-looking, with a shock of pure, white hair.

"Zeke," his father said. He offered his hand, wearing an expression — an expression — of relief. "I was beginning to be afraid you weren't coming."

Zeke took that hand, highly aware of Casey pressed right up against his back, nearly pushing him into the table. "We ran a bit late." He added, begrudgingly, "Sorry."

"It's all right. You're here, that's what's important." His father was openly checking him over. "You look good, Zeke. I'd say I was proud if I thought I could get away with it."

This man bore no resemblance to the automaton that Zeke had known. Choking on a lump of pure rancour, he replied evenly, "You just did." He stepped back and aside, tearing away Casey's invisibility cloak. "You remember Casey Connor?"

"Yes, of course."

As Jacob gave the same hand to Casey, time shifted into crawl speed for Zeke. He found that he was trying to scrutinize every iota of reaction, but all he saw on his father's face was polite interest. He should have known he'd be disappointed.

"Hello, Casey. You're looking very well." Jacob turned to indicate the strange woman, who had gotten to her feet also. "This is Melissa Severna."

Melissa Severna definitely had no issues with letting everyone see her reactions; she was staring openly at Casey and didn't stop until Zeke presented a hand almost under her face. At that, her concentration shifted and she greeted him. "I've heard so much about you, Zeke."

"Really?" Zeke couldn't help saying, not quite able to curb the sarcasm.

"Yes, really. And look at you...so handsome!" Melissa shot Zeke's father a look that could only be described as cheeky. "Clearly he takes after his father."

"Zeke actually takes after his mother quite a bit in looks," Jacob returned.

For some reason, this exchange annoyed Zeke intensely.

"And...Casey is it?" The woman had to stretch to get her hand within Casey's reach but Casey didn't take it. Zeke wasn't sure he even saw it. He prodded Casey with a shoulder.

"Yes," Casey murmured. "Hi." Apart from that he barely acknowledged the woman, who was beginning to seem like she'd prefer to have him for dinner over anything on the menu.

"Should we sit down?" she suggested, still smiling.

They were already presented with a new dilemma: Their table was a half-moon shaped booth. Melissa was already on the inside and if Casey went on the inside too, as he usually preferred, he would be trapped next to her. On the other hand, he might be much more anxious about sitting on the less-protected outside where passing strangers could get to him. Zeke waited to see what Casey would do, and when there were no indications of motion, he put a hand on his shoulder. Casey shuddered, his eyes flying up to Zeke's face. Zeke quickly turned, keeping his body between him and the couple behind him. "Inside or outside?" he said under his breath.

To his relief, Casey answered. "Out — outside."

"Okay."

Finally, they were sitting down, all four of them. Zeke was exhausted, too exhausted to make the first move to overcome the painful silence at the table.

"So, Zeke," his father pronounced. "It's good to see you."

Zeke couldn't think of anything to say that was both polite and truthful, so he lied. "Likewise."

"I hope you don't mind me crashing the party, Zeke," Melissa cooed. She wrapped a hand around her water glass, tapping it with her nails. They were not impractically long, but expensively manicured. "I really wanted to meet you."

"Sure," Zeke replied, fixing his gaze on his father momentarily. Since he had insisted on bringing Casey, he supposed that his father was well within his rights to bring this woman.

Something was scrabbling against Zeke's thigh; it was Casey, searching for his hand. Zeke gave it to him and held on himself, wishing there was something else he could do for Casey in this situation. Casey was staring at the tablecloth, giving the impression of extreme shyness when Zeke knew it was more about controlling the panic, trying not to admit to the reality of where he was.

"Good evening, folks." That was a familiar voice — Jerry's, Zeke confirmed. At the sound of him, Casey was jarred from his contemplation of the table. "Zeke," Jerry greeted. "Hey, Casey. You doin' okay tonight?" Jerry put his hand on the back of the booth and got down on one knee beside Casey, bringing himself to Casey's eye level.

"Are you waiting on us?" Casey asked.

"Yep. I saw ‘Tyler' in the book and asked if I could take your table."

"This is Jerry," Zeke said to his father. "He's been hanging around our roommate."

"Hanging around?" Jerry said with a grin.

"What would you call it?"

"Hovering." Jerry turned his attention back to Casey, who, during the past ten seconds, had successfully achieved something that looked like equilibrium. "Would you like a drink, Casey?"

"Just water, please." From the sound of it, Casey was parched. "Lots of it."

"We'll keep you well-hydrated," Jerry promised, straightening up. Addressing the others, he said, "How about you folks?"

"Do you want to share some wine?" Jacob asked his date. She nodded eagerly. "What do you recommend, Jerry?"

"For our house wines we have a Valpolicella, and a lovely Australian Shiraz — "

"That sounds good. We'll have a bottle."

"Zeke?" Jerry prompted.

"Double vodka and soda."

"You got it." Jerry gave Casey a heartening smile and zigged off in the direction of the bar. Zeke thought he might just love Jerry.

"You said he's been...hanging around?" his father queried. "What does that mean?"

Well, duh. "I meant that he and Sasha are dating."

"Oh, so your roommate..."

"Is gay too, yes."

Melissa asked suddenly, "How do you like Seattle?"

"Very much," Zeke replied. "How long are you staying?"

"Just the weekend. Jake thought we could make it sort of a romantic getaway."

So it seemed that when his father said he wanted it to be "just family" he had been including Melissa. Interesting was one word that sprang to mind, along with a plethora of other, less polite ones.

"It really is wonderful to meet you, Zeke," gushed Melissa when he didn't have anything to say. "I'm hoping we'll see more of you now, especially since you live so much closer to L.A."

"That depends," Zeke said.

"Oh. Well, then...I hope we can get you to L.A. in a couple of months — "

"Mel," interrupted Jacob.

Melissa shut up, mashing her lips together in an exaggerated fashion.

"What's happening in a couple of months?" Zeke asked.

His father cleared his throat. "Melissa and I are getting married," he explained. "On New Year's Eve. It's not going to be a huge event, we've both been married before and we didn't want to go all out. I was going to wait until later to ask you this, but..." Jacob shot a glare sideways and Melissa shrugged a mild apology. "I was really hoping you would stand up for me at the wedding, Zeke."

Zeke let his mouth fall open. He was going to deliver the first response that came to mind but his father went on before he could do it.

"Melissa has a daughter who's going to stand up for her. Apart from that we didn't really want a wedding party so to speak."

Now that his initial opportunity had come and gone, Zeke felt like he had been muzzled, and the ensuing silence was terrible. Casey was now holding his hand so tightly that Zeke could feel blood pulsing against and under his skin and wasn't sure whose was whose.

"I don't know," Zeke said at last.

"You would only need to come for a few days," Jacob urged. He flicked a look at Casey. "You'd be welcome too, Casey."

Casey was wheezing a little now.

"I can't say yes or no right now," Zeke said quietly. The pressure on his hand lessened noticeably. "We'll talk about it later, okay?"

Melissa looked disappointed — but what the fuck did they expect of him? His father probably had law clerks who knew him better than Zeke did.

"I understand," his father said.

They fell to another round of awkward quiet, broken only by Jerry returning with drinks and menus. It took some time to get the wine properly opened, tested and poured, which was a fucking reprieve for all of them. Zeke enjoyed the break, looking around the restaurant at all the other people trying so hard to be resplendent while Casey was sitting here doing it effortlessly. Indeed, Casey was far too preoccupied with trying to disappear at this point to even consider trying to get noticed. For his own part, Zeke was silently exhorting them all Look, all of you, look here if you want to see something beautiful...Look, Father, at who I have here beside me. You remember him, the alien boy, the strange one, look at him!

"Now I just wanted to tell you about a special that we have on tonight," Jerry informed them, refilling Casey's water glass. "It's fresh Pacific salmon with a wasabi crust on a red taro-parsnip mash with cranberry-glazed haricot beans and spiced créme fraiche."

"Now there's a mouthful," Melissa cracked, and Jacob snorted his amusement.

Jerry smiled. "I'll give you a few minutes — or several if you need. No rush."

Zeke picked up his menu. As he began to read, he became grateful for Sasha's recommendation earlier. The scope of the dishes was truly international; also, every single item on the menu was so deliberately innovative that just getting through it was wearying. Zeke had no idea what Casey was going to do with it, but Jacob and Melissa seemed quite enthralled.

True to his word, Jerry came back ten minutes later. Zeke's heart sank another level with every word out of Melissa's and his father's mouths. They each ordered an appetizer, a salad and an entrée, and no doubt someone would be wanting dessert. He and Casey were going to be here all night, quite literally.

As Jerry nodded with approval, Casey ordered hot and sour scallops as an appetizer, and then one of the grilled pizzas, with smoked tomatoes, arugula, apple, chestnuts, pancetta and goat cheese. Zeke ordered salmon carpaccio with a cilantro drizzle and the venison, and another drink.

"So what do you do, Melissa?" he asked. He held Casey's hand in his lap now, drawing lightly on his open palm.

Melissa was caught in mid-sip; she lowered her wine glass and answered, "I own a fitness centre."

"Actually, it's a chain of fitness centres," Zeke's father corrected. "And we met when I went there as this fat slob who needed to get in shape."

Zeke's father and his fiancée smiled at each other.

"Have you...?" Casey started, then fell silent as though shocked to hear his own voice.

"Yes, dear?" Melissa encouraged. "Have we what?"

"Have you ever seen any movie stars?"

"Oh, absolutely, yes! In fact, William Baldwin works out in one of my gyms. And I've spotted Nicole Kidman...Sylvester Stallone...once I caught a glimpse of Harrison Ford. All at a distance, you know."

"Awesome," Casey whispered.

"If you come to L.A. dear, I'll take you to all the Hollywood tourist spots."

Casey half-smiled while looking more nervous than ever. "I — I don't know," he said, toying with his silverware.

A girl at a nearby table squealed loudly. It was evidently all in fun, but it held a quality that easily could have been hysteria. Casey's hand jerked away from Zeke, while the other dropped the fork he'd been fidgeting with; it crashed against the porcelain side plate to his left. Zeke glanced over to the next table and saw a man and woman sitting together. The man appeared to be eating the woman's ear.

"Well, Casey," Jacob said, launching himself gamely into the breach. "I heard you had gone to school in the big city."

Zeke nudged Casey, trying to distract him from what was going on at the next table. Casey said, "Y-yes, sir."

"Call me Jacob."

"Jacob," Casey parroted, his eyes again fixed on that couple across the way.

"University of Ohio, right?"

The question managed to drag Casey's attention back, but slowly. "Yes," Casey said after an endless pause.

"So you're an old hat at the academics, huh?"

Zeke wanted to know where the fuck his father was going with this. Jacob had to know plenty about Casey's situation, as he had already demonstrated. More to the point, when had his father become even slightly interested in the life histories of the people around him, and when had he begun to do things like make polite conversation? The man Zeke had known was a bit of a social idiot.

"I — I guess," Casey was stuttering.

"Casey's helping me a lot with school," Zeke interposed.

"Oh?" said his father, with carefully diluted surprise.

"Yep. You know me — I've never really been good with studying."

"You were when you applied yourself."

"Whatever. Anyway, I got one of my mid-terms back last week, and it went really well."

"That's good. What are you taking, Zeke?"

"Philosophy."

"Hmm. Seems like that would be a good lead into law school."

"No, Jacob."

His father sighed. "I can try, anyway. What are you planning to do when you're done with your degree?"

"I don't know. Maybe get another degree."

Jacob's mouth tightened. The man had particular ideas about what constituted work. To him, being an academic was something you did in order to get a job, or to avoid getting a job.

"Yeah," Zeke needled. "Maybe I'll go all the way, become a philosophy professor."

"That sounds really cool," Melissa chimed in. "What do you study, Casey?"

"Physics," Casey answered. "But — but I don't know if I'll, um, um — if I'll finish it."

"Why is that?" Melissa asked. It had developed that every word that she uttered to Casey was like a sugary breakfast cereal, and Zeke's teeth were aching.

"I'd like to s-study...film."

Zeke was almost the most surprised person at the table. Of course, he was well-acquainted with Casey's obsessions but it was very peculiar that he chose this moment to announce a change in his program of study.

"Really," said Zeke's father. "Hmm." To him, film probably rated somewhere between poetry and basket weaving, even further down than philosophy.

"Oh, I love movies!" Melissa exclaimed. "Jake doesn't really care for them, if you can believe it. He likes to watch the news and those dreadful reality shows."

"I just don't care much for fantasy," Zeke's father said.

Casey opened his mouth, catching himself before he made a sound this time. Zeke reached for his hand again and squeezed it encouragingly. Casey glanced at him; Zeke didn't do anything so obvious as nod his head, but he maintained a steady, open expression, silently urging him onward.

"But...reality shows aren't exactly real," Casey got out.

Jacob Tyler's head tilted, perhaps in surprise that he was being challenged. "I know that," he returned. "I'm just not interested in things that are entirely made up. I don't see what purpose they serve."

Zeke was holding his breath as Casey replied, "I think..."

"Yes?" Jacob pressed.

"Um...I think...fiction can be more real than reality...if it's done right." Casey ducked his head. "Even — even the most fantastic story can be truthful."

"I agree with that," Zeke said quickly, although he personally had little use for the genre that was associated with "fantasy." He certainly did enjoy a good story though, and he had learned just as much about the human condition as he had from real life from reading fiction.

"To each his own," his father said, dismissing them both but mostly dismissing Casey.

"What is that?" Zeke demanded. "That's just a cop-out, isn't it?"

"Say again?"

"You want to let someone know that they're completely wrong but you aren't interested in discussing it with them."

"No, Zeke, what I said was 'to each his own.' I'm not putting anyone down, I'm respecting their opinion." Jacob Tyler was now using his "I'm a lawyer" voice, as Zeke had dubbed it many years back. It was cool and just the slightest bit superior. It said, with total command of itself, You will not resist this. This is nothing but Reason you are hearing now, which is why you have no defense against it.

"That's crap," Zeke declared.

"I don't want an argument, Zeke, but if you recall, I wasn't the one who started this."

"Don't you dare — "

"Lower your voice."

Zeke hissed, "Don't you even think about blaming him."

"Jesus Christ," said his father, his voice getting hot. "Don't you think you're blowing this out of proportion a little?"

That was when Zeke became aware of some things — mainly that he had lost it in public and that Casey was becoming more unhinged by the second. No doubt Casey was thinking that he'd wrecked everything when in fact it was Zeke who had screwed up just now. Zeke said, begrudgingly and solely for Casey's benefit, "Maybe."

"And...hot and sour scallops!" Jerry announced, arriving with their appetizers, assisted by a bus boy. "Salmon carpaccio...wild mushroom ravioli..." Once everything was on the table, Jerry queried, "Can I get anyone anything?"

"A refill," Zeke said, basking in his father's quick look of disapproval. It wasn't like he was interested in getting drunk tonight, but the fact was he'd had four shots now and barely felt a thing. He most certainly did not feel anything like relaxation.

Casey started to eat his scallops, his hands shaking quite visibly, and it probably didn't help that everyone else was seeing it. Zeke would have loved to call an end to the evening and take him home — but he was quite conscious that it was important to Casey, and for Casey, that they stick this out.

"Mmm!" Melissa exclaimed, one bite into her sushi. "This is so good! How is yours, Jake?"

Unexpectedly, Casey was on the move. "Ex — excuse me," he blurted, sliding to the end of the seat.

Zeke caught his arm. "Where — ?"

"Bathroom," Casey whispered, his eyes frantic. Feeling ludicrous, Zeke let him go and he was on his feet in a shot. "I'll be...um..." He scuttled in what looked like the right direction for the restrooms, narrowly avoiding collision with several people. He did run into Jerry en route; Jerry started to say something to him, and tried to grab hold of him, changing his mind when he realized that it would not help.

As soon as Casey was out of earshot, Melissa touched Zeke's arm and gushed, "He's just so adorable!"

"Yeah, I like him," Zeke said. He clenched his napkin, wishing it was paper rather than fabric and therefore capable of being satisfyingly torn to pieces. He wanted even more to follow Casey.

"But..." Melissa's voice dropped to a whisper. "...so nervous! Poor thing, he's making me jumpy and I'm usually cool as a cucumber."

Zeke snapped, "How about you try to overcome it."

His father said, "Zeke, you seem determined to believe that everyone's sitting in judgment. No one is saying anything against him."

"Right, and I'm sure Rachel didn't give you the full report about me and Casey."

"I've told you, Zeke. I don't believe most of what your mother tells me." The long slurp that Jacob took of his wine was probably less than appropriate to properly appreciate its finer qualities. Setting his glass down, he added, "I'd really like for us to have a pleasant evening together."

"I can do that," Zeke replied tightly. "As long as everyone treats everyone else with respect."

His father folded his hands on the table. "I think everyone is doing that except you, Zeke."

"Fuck you," Zeke said under his breath. He performed a quick visual scan for Casey before saying, "Why are we here, Jacob? Just so you could ask me to come to your wedding?"

"Not only that," his father replied. "I know that I've made mistakes, Zeke. I'm here to say that I want to make up for all that somehow. I want to get to know you, Zeke, and this wedding could be the right time to start over."

"Please say you'll be there," Melissa pleaded with Zeke.

"Look," Zeke said, eyes still searching for Casey. "I'm sure you're a very nice lady, Melissa, but I don't see me coming to your wedding."

"Won't you just think about it?" Melissa asked.

Casey was officially overdue. "I'll think about it," Zeke muttered.

His father glanced over his shoulder in the direction that Casey had gone. "Is there a problem?" he asked.

"Excuse me," Zeke said. "I'll just go and make sure..." He didn't bother to finish.

The bathrooms were pristine, almost too attractive for the things that went on in bathrooms. There was a man washing his hands and no sign of Casey — except for the stall at the end, where a familiar pair of shoes could be seen resting on the floor. Zeke made a pretense of washing his own hands, taking his time, waiting for them to be alone. Finally, the other man left.

Zeke drew closer to the stall in question and said softly, "Case."

There was a deepening of the stillness but no answer.

"Casey," Zeke said, and knocked. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," Casey's voice said.

"Do you want to go home?"

Pause.

"I haven't had my pizza."

"We can go home and order pizza."

"Not with s-smoked tomatoes."

"If you want something smoked I could just wave my cigarette around a bit, how about that?" No response. "Case, tell me if you want to go."

"I...don't."

"Are you going to come back to the table, then?"

With a sob: "I can't, Zeke."

"What do you mean?"

"I can't o-open the door. I'm t-trying...keep telling my — myself — but — "

"What if you let me come in?" Zeke asked — just as another man, a much older man, came into the bathroom. He gave Zeke a disgusted look, then went about his business. Zeke decided he didn't care what the man heard.

"Okay," Casey returned. A moment later the door was ajar. Zeke scooted in and shut it again, turning the latch to lock it.

So now he was standing in a bathroom stall, his back to the door while Casey sat on the lid, peering mournfully up at him. It was inherently a ridiculous situation, but Zeke was happier than he had been all night. He couldn't resist the opportunity; he took both of Casey's hands as he bent over, applying himself to the tender swell of Casey's bottom lip. In this instance he had surprised Casey, but being Casey, he didn't flinch. He remained in place while his lips complied, letting Zeke feed on his mouth in slow motion, perhaps taken aback by the anomaly — Zeke kissing him in a bathroom stall. When Zeke considered himself momentarily sated and moved back, he caught Casey looking at him as though he were attempting to classify the experience and having slight success.

"We could leave," Zeke suggested. He uncurled his hands from around Casey's and slid them up beneath his sleeves, grasping his forearms and pulling him onto his feet.

"I don't..." Casey's mouth was stopped again but this time he moved eagerly into it, his body pressed so close that Zeke could feel the line of him all the way from lips to knees. Their feet got a bit tangled and Casey lost his balance. He grabbed onto Zeke, getting his jacket lapel and a handful of silk, while Zeke used the grip on his forearms to pull him even closer so that they were clinging to each other.

Zeke breathed, "The Mustang's in the parking lot. We could take it, let Sasha take a cab or something."

They were so close that he couldn't get a good look at Casey's face, but from the tightness of his grip and the warm tremble of his body, Zeke surmised that he was finding that to be a very good idea.

"Thank you very much," Sasha's voice said, just outside. "Leave me to fend for myself."

Casey wormed his way under Zeke's arm and reached for the latch, forcing Zeke to flatten himself against the wall. He opened the door a crack and peered out. "Sasha?"

"Hi, kitten. Oh, my, look at you, you're just to die for. I could eat you up. Come out here, would you? I'd come in there, but I think I'd hurt myself."

Casey hesitated for all of two seconds about opening the door all the way, and then, just like that, he was out.

Zeke followed, feeling poisonous — sometimes, he hated Sasha. He had coaxed and wrangled and tried to ensure that Casey's feelings were the priority, and then Sasha just breezed in and got Casey out with a few cutesy words. It actually fucking hurt, and it hurt more when he saw Casey enfolded in Sasha's long arms in the middle of the men's bathroom, neither of them giving a damn who was watching.

Okay, he didn't really hate Sasha, because without him they'd be a bit fucked right now. Sasha was the breath of sanity and calm that they had needed — an interesting situation, Zeke realized, since it implied conversely that he himself was not being very sane and calm. Fuck, he had been about to flee the restaurant, shimmy out the back door, steal a car — that just happened to belong to him — and run away. And worse, he had been about to do it on the pretext that it was what Casey needed.

Sasha was looking steadily at Zeke over the top of Casey's head.

"We'd better go back out there, Case," Zeke said.

Casey lifted his head, moving away from Sasha. "I guess," he yielded easily, blinking tiredly. It occurred to Zeke that letting Casey decide anything right now was a mistake. Right now Casey would follow wherever Zeke led, and that meant that Zeke had an even greater responsibility to behave with maturity and careful consideration.

"They're probably thinking we cut and ran," Zeke said gently. "We don't want that, do we?"

"No."

Sasha nodded approvingly.

"Is this you taking your break?" Zeke asked him.

"This is me needing to visit the little boy's room. Jerry suggested it might be a good time."

Zeke half-smiled his gratitude. "Are you going to..."

"I'll join you guys for dessert, if that's okay."

"More than okay," Zeke said.

Sasha smiled in acknowledgment. "I took a peek — your dad's a dish, Zeke."

"Not."

"He is."

"Looks like Steve Martin," Casey intoned.

Sasha turned the same smile on him, and discarded the question of which movie star Zeke's father most resembled. He put his hands on Casey's shoulders and stated, "Now then, I personally guarantee that there are no...dangerous people in this restaurant tonight."

"How do you know that?" Casey asked. It was neither a joke nor a challenge. It was a question.

Sasha looked to Zeke for help. Zeke shrugged. Personally, he would not have made such a reckless promise. He only claimed to be able to protect Casey from any and all threats that might arise, a much more realistic goal in his view.

"Just believe me when I saw that I can see inside everyone here. We have a special scanner installed at the door."

Casey digested that bit of drivel. "Okay," he said.

Zeke raised his eyebrows; he had been expecting Casey to soundly reject such nonsense. Even Sasha looked surprised at Casey's acceptance, but he said only, "Off you go, I need to get back to work. No more bathroom conferences, okay?"

Sasha dashed off ahead of them while Casey and Zeke followed more slowly behind. As he held the bathroom door for Casey, Zeke asked, "Did you really buy what Sasha just said?" He was undermining Sasha perhaps, but he couldn't help himself. There were still some ways that he knew Casey that Sasha never could.

"Of course not," Casey said. "I may be sick but I'm not stupid."

That's my alien-killer, Zeke thought as they negotiated their way through table after table of suspects.

Casey chose to sit on the inside when they got back, and although it was next to Melissa, he seemed much more comfortable there. He successfully engaged in a conversation with her, mostly on the subject of movies and Hollywood, and as the dinner dragged on to its conclusion, Zeke's satisfaction swelled to elephantine proportions — even as he knew that Casey was squandering days, maybe weeks worth of his emotional energy on this night.

Melissa was okay, Zeke supposed; a bit overdone but no idiot. Of course, his father would never be able to spend time with an idiot, certainly not marry one. And Melissa liked Casey, with a motherly sort of I-want-to-cuddle-and-smother-you kind of vibe. Even so, she showed enough sense to hold back from touching Casey for the entire duration of the meal. A shrewd woman, and blatantly a lot more sane than Zeke's mother.

By the time that Jerry brought them the dessert menus Zeke was beginning to feel wrung out, while still quite sober; he had stopped drinking when his head began to swim, switching to straight soda. Throughout the entrée course he had made polite conversation with his father, knowing there was a lot that the man wanted to say that couldn't get said until they were alone — and he wanted to hear it. When his father had suggested that they get together the next day, just the two of them, he had agreed.

Casey bravely ordered something with custard and fruit, his voice hollow with exhaustion. Shortly, Sasha showed up, stripped of his chef's headgear and with the top buttons of his chef's tunic hanging open. He sat down next to Zeke and had them all squeeze in together. Casey took advantage of the opportunity to meld himself to Zeke's side. He got very quiet, and so did Zeke, letting Sasha take complete responsibility for the conversation.

No one noticed or remarked on the fact that Casey was almost falling asleep, propped up against Zeke — until Melissa laughed vigorously at something Sasha said and Casey twitched, jarring Zeke from his own stupour and startling the others a bit. Zeke looked at the dessert that had exactly one bite taken out of it and decided that it was time to go.

"I'm sorry to cut the evening short," Zeke interposed as smoothly as he could. "But Casey and I should be getting home now."

Jacob and Melissa made no protest. "I understand," Jacob said. "I'll take care of this." He waved his hand around the table. Yes, you will, was Zeke's thought. "So I'll see you tomorrow, Zeke, at my hotel?"

"Eleven-thirty," Zeke confirmed.

He was fairly certain he could now identify pleasure when it appeared on his father's face. "Wonderful...it was good to see you again, Casey."

"And lovely to meet you both," Melissa added, with a smile just for Casey. Unfortunately, Casey wasn't tracking much at that moment, and Zeke didn't have it in him to pester a response out of him yet again.

Sasha had gotten up so they could slide out of the booth. "If it's all right," he said to Melissa and Jacob, "I'll just hang out with you folks for a bit longer." He traded a look with Zeke, telling him that he would ensure that their night ended on a good note. Zeke found that he was grateful.

At the door, Jerry helped them both into their jackets. "I hope you had a good time."

Zeke didn't know about that, but he was not unhappy with the outcome. He replied, "Sure. Thanks, Jerry."

"My pleasure."

Jerry's hands were fiddling with Casey's jacket buttons, like he was tempted to button them for him. Sure, Casey brought that out in people, but this was Zeke's job. He nudged Jerry out of the way as politely as he could manage and tugged the front panels of the jacket closer together. "Case?"

"Mmm?" Casey roused himself a bit, and seemed a little surprised that he was standing at the exit and not still sitting in the booth.

"You going to do that up? It's damp out."

"I didn't say good-night."

"It's all right — "

"No, I should — "

With an effort, Zeke kept his place in the lobby while Casey navigated his way back to the table. He watched as Casey negotiated the floor in fits and starts to get around people and tables, then spoke briefly to Zeke's father and Melissa, shaking their hands. Sasha said something to him that made him smile bashfully.

"I hope you don't mind me saying this," Jerry told Zeke, "but I feel really proud right now."

Zeke didn't mind.

Not surprisingly, Casey fell asleep in the cab. Zeke had to shake him awake at their door. He very seriously considered carrying Casey up the metal steps — it would probably be faster — but he didn't, figuring it was best to let Casey finish the night on his own power. Once he was inside the door, however, it looked like he was going to hit the bed with his jacket and shoes still on.

"Whoa, whoa." Zeke stopped him, divested him of his outer layer, then followed him on his determined passage to the bedroom. "Wait, Case. You don't want to sleep in those clothes."

Casey swayed and blinked at Zeke, then moved shaky hands to the button on his not-leather pants. While he let the pants crumple to the floor, Zeke found him a clean t- shirt. Zeke lifted the blue shirt over his head for him and replaced it with the t-shirt, leaving him to muddle his way into the sleeves.

Some wires got crossed; Casey stretched up to kiss Zeke, hands fumbling mindlessly with Zeke's pants, trying to open them. Zeke accepted the kiss willingly, tasting all the flavours of the day...tomatoes, bacon, custard...fear, anger, some enjoyment one could hope...while easily removing Casey's confused hands and tucking them against his chest where they lay limp and slightly curled.

"Time to sleep," Zeke whispered.

Without a word Casey parted from him, quite literally crawling onto the bed. Zeke helped him, pulling the covers back where he could, and then tucking them up around Casey's shoulders. He stood for a second regarding the smallish lump in the bed, then said, "Case."

"Mmm...Zeke..." It was possible that Casey wasn't awake, hadn't been since the cab — notwithstanding walking and talking.

"I want to say thank you."

"Mmm."

"Casey?"

"I'm sleeping, Zeke."

Zeke grinned to himself. "I know, Case. I know. Just...thank you."

"Y're welcome."

Zeke smiled. He was going to move away but Casey suddenly sat up and cried out, "Zeke? Where you goin'?"

"I'll die if I don't have a smoke, Case."

"Oh. Okay." Casey lay down again. That was the last Zeke heard from him that night. He was still asleep at 10:30 the next morning when Zeke got up and showered and made himself ready for the real confrontation with his father.

 

Zeke had been awakened by what he thought was the TV but was actually Sasha and Jerry talking. There was something confusing about that...okay, so Jerry had slept over. That was a first for them; Sasha had stayed over at Jerry's on several occasions already, but not the other way around yet.

They were sitting together at the kitchen table drinking their coffee, looking like nothing so much as an old married couple enjoying their Sunday morning. "Hey," Sasha greeted Zeke, who was dressed and ready to go. "Look who's up."

"Had to," Zeke grunted, seeking his running shoes. "I'm meeting my father for a bit."

"Good luck with that," Sasha said.

"Thanks. Where the fuck are my — "

Jerry admitted, "Sorry — I put them away."

In the front closet, if it could be believed. As he retrieved them, Zeke said to Jerry, "So you're a neat freak too?"

"Oh, definitely," Jerry confirmed.

"When I saw his apartment I fell right into his arms," Sasha added.

"Lucky for him," Zeke grumbled, tying his shoelaces.

"You know...we should go for a drive later."

"What's that?"

"I said...we should go for a drive in the Mustang. Jerry's willing to sit in the back. We could even bring along a picnic."

"If Casey's feeling up to it."

Sasha said confidently, "I'll convince him."

"We'll see. I have to be going."

"Zeke?"

"What?"

"Are you going to go to this wedding?"

Zeke had been reaching for the door; he stopped to look at Sasha. "Oh, they told you about that?"

"Are you?"

"I don't know." Zeke put his hand on the doorknob. "It depends."

He took the Mustang, deliberately not thinking much as he drove. It was far better to have no expectations about what was going to transpire. His father did seem different now, but he'd been misled before. It wouldn't be entirely shocking to Zeke if he got to the hotel and found that his father had checked out. He could already be back in Los Angeles, for that matter.

At the Fairmont, he had the front desk page his father's room and took up a position where he could watch people entering and exiting the elevators. Contrary to past history and reasonable expectations, Jacob appeared within five minutes, wearing a denim shirt and khakis. It was disconcerting to realize that the man had a casual wardrobe; every memory Zeke had involved him wearing a suit.

"Have you eaten?" Jacob asked Zeke, who then noticed that he was carrying a gift-wrapped package.

"Yeah...last night."

Jacob smiled in reply. "I know, I'm still rather full myself."

"What's this?" Zeke queried, gesturing at the package.

"Your birthday present."

"My birthday's almost a month away."

"I know, but I probably won't see you, so..." Jacob shrugged. He made no attempt to have Zeke take the gift just yet. "Why don't we go into the hotel restaurant? They have a nice brunch...in case we do get hungry."

Zeke shrugged his agreement. They went around a corner and down a short hallway to the establishment to which Jacob was referring. It was bright and open, and Zeke would have preferred it to where they had gone last night. He wasn't going to say that, however, and certainly never in Sasha's presence. They got settled at a table; Jacob put the gift on the floor beside him. Zeke was supplied with coffee, which it seemed that his father didn't drink anymore.

"High blood pressure," Jacob explained. "Need to watch the caffeine." He sized Zeke up then, without bothering to hide it. He said, "You've changed."

"Yes. I have."

"The last time I saw you, you were still doing some sort of rebel punk rock thing."

Zeke gritted his teeth. It would have been a delightful experiment to tell his father about some of his less legal forms of rebellion and then to just sit back and watch him have seizures.

"That was three years ago, of course," Jacob added. He rested his hands on the table, and Zeke was fairly certain that this was exactly what one would see sitting across the conference table from Jacob Tyler, attorney-at-law. "Zeke, the main reason I came here is...I — I want to apologize to you."

Zeke fought not to react with anything more than casual interest. "Oh?"

"Yes, I realize that it's impossible to really atone for the way I've treated you, but all I can do is say I'm sorry."

"You didn't treat me any way at all."

"That is...that's it, exactly." Jacob cleared his throat. "And I have no excuse."

"You do have an explanation?" Zeke suggested, and was very impressed with his own ongoing serenity.

"Yes...but it isn't all...well, I'm sure you know better than anyone what it was like with your mother. I left when you were twelve, but I know you remember..."

"I remember. And you never completely left, anyway. You kept coming back."

"Yes, I did, because — you know, Zeke, I absolutely worshipped your mother. She was the first woman to ever show any interest in me and I'll never know why to this day. I was this geeky, chubby guy with no social skills to speak of and she..." Zeke's father sighed. "She was — she's so splendid, and she knows it. She tortured me for years."

"I know," Zeke said. "And when you weren't around she put all her energy into torturing me."

"I am sorry for that. It was just that being with her as long as I was...It was like I couldn't feel anything. I mean I was just numb and I walked around like that for years, which is the only version of me that you probably know. I'm not proud of the way I was, I was...stuck."

"Is that your explanation?"

"Well, it — "

"Because that doesn't explain anything," Zeke declared. "If you're saying you weren't happy...I get that. But it doesn't explain what happened after the — the last time you were in Herrington."

"I know." Zeke's father looked down at his empty plate.

Zeke leaned forward, pressing his point mercilessly. "It's not my fondest memory, you know...that whole event. I could have used a parent."

"I'm so sorry, Zeke — "

"Don't get me wrong. Maybe I could have used a parent, but I managed fine without one. Quite bluntly — I don't need you. I'm here to find out if there's some good reason for me to be friends with you now, because I have a perfectly decent life going on here. I'm grateful for the money, very grateful, but if you want it back you can have it. I'll still do fine."

Jacob's face displayed a series of emotions as he listened. Anger, defensiveness, amusement, hurt...and then finally it was just wistful. "You certainly do lay your cards on the table," he said wryly.

"That's how I've had to learn to be."

"No, I appreciate it. After your mother, it's a relief. That's why I love Melissa...She always says just what she thinks." Jacob drummed his fingers a little on the table, one of the first real displays of anxiety Zeke had ever witnessed from him. "You...you want an answer to your question, I know."

Jacob cleared his throat, and appeared to require some special effort to meet his son's eyes at that point.

"Zeke...after you told me what happened to you at your high school, I just didn't know what to do with it. I was uncomfortable and I wasn't really able to think clearly...I ran, and that's the truth. The longer I went without talking to you, the harder it got to call. I'm not saying that excuses it."

"Did you think we were lying, or just crazy?"

"I didn't know what to think, Zeke. I still don't. Especially when..."

Zeke stilled. "When what?"

"Especially when I see how close you and Casey are. I'm sure you're hating me for saying that — "

Zeke growled, "I'm not hating you, because you're not going to say it. Not one word."

"All right — "

"Who the fuck do you think you are?"

"Your father, Zeke."

"Who has never really been in my life, so you just...you..."

"I was only trying to explain my uneasiness about the things that you say happened to you."

"That I say — ?"

"But it's not the main point, is it? The main point is, I shouldn't have disappeared. I should have been around but I've been messed up in the head, Zeke. I finally got myself some help about a year and a half ago."

Zeke quieted himself. "You were depressed?"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you. It was really hard to admit it to myself. I was raised that if you're unhappy you should be able to sort yourself out. You don't go to any head doctors and you certainly don't take pills for it. I thought that was only for hysterical women."

Zeke swished his cold coffee and didn't comment on that.

"About a year ago, I met Mel. I was trying to get in shape and I walked into her place. Everything's different for me now, Zeke. I think I could actually be happy."

"So what do you want from me?"

"A chance. Just a chance to — to get to know you. You seem like a pretty amazing guy — though I take no credit for it."

To his own amazement, Zeke felt himself flush. "You can take a little," he forced himself to say.

"Really?"

"Sure, I...I remember once you told me that the best way to use my heart was to use my head. I never forgot that."

"I said that?"

"Yeah," Zeke said, feeling a smile creep up. "I was nine."

"Wow." Jacob grinned slightly. "But you know, I'm afraid of how you might have taken that. I didn't mean that you should — "

"I know what you meant." Now it was Zeke who couldn't seem to raise his eyes above the edge of the tablecloth. "I guess...I can give you a chance."

When he did look up, there was real, raw, naked emotion to be seen. With eyes glimmering his father said, "Thank you, Zeke — thank you."

"Just one chance, though. And I'll warn you now. The subject of Casey is off- limits, unless you want to say something nice."

Jacob edged carefully into his next comment. "I can see why you're...why you like him, Zeke. There's definitely something special there. Did you know I went to high school with his mother?"

"No. I didn't know that."

"Yeah, Allison and I were good friends back then, so I'm...glad that Casey's doing well."

Right about then Zeke had a crazy, irrational urge to tell this man things, to ask for his advice — but that was absurd. He had Sasha, and Stokes, and he even had Stan. Just because this man had given Zeke a chromosome once upon a time it did not make him qualified to give opinions about relationships. Pretty fucking far from it, actually.

"So Zeke. Do you think you'll come to the wedding?"

The mad moment had passed. Zeke breathed out and answered, "Honestly, I don't know. I don't want to without Casey, but I don't know yet if Casey will do it."

"Let me know as soon as you can?"

"I will."

Suddenly, there seemed nothing else to say, and it got agonizingly quiet. Zeke's father covered by retrieving the gift that he had brought with him and holding it out. "Will you take this? Please?"

There had been a time — only days ago, actually — when Zeke would have taken the thing, whatever it was, and set fire to it. Now, seeing as he was giving Jacob a chance...he reached for it. It was about the size of a VCR, but heavier. "Should I open it now?"

"I hope so, yeah."

He tore the paper off quickly. It was a Sony Play Station Two, and six brand-new games. Zeke couldn't think of anything to say. It wasn't the most personal gift he had ever received, but it certainly did speak to his ideas of fun.

"You don't already have one of these, do you?" Jacob asked. "I understand they've only been on the market for a short time..."

"No," Zeke replied. "No, I don't."

"Ah...good. I hope you like playing games."

"Actually...yeah, I think we'll get a lot of use out of this."

"Happy birthday, Zeke," said his father, almost making a question of it.

"Thank you...Jacob."

"Are you hungry yet?"

"I could eat."

"How about we go up, then?"

As Zeke filled his place with fruit, bacon, egg, sausage, ham, and more egg, it occurred to him that he should write back to Delilah and apologize.


	3. Chapter 3

_November 18th or is it the 19th, can't remember. At least I know what day it is...as in, that day in November that the sun came out for a whole two hours. The weather here is screwed up. I don't mind the rain, but a little change is nice. They say it even rains in the winter here, which totally sucks. I like snow._

 _So Zeke's birthday is in two weeks, which we probably would never have found out if it weren't for his dad giving him the PS2. I think he didn't want anyone to know because he likes to act like he doesn't care about stuff like that, like he's too grown up for it but I'll bet that secretly he's always wanted a party with a cake and balloons and singing. Of course now that Sasha is on the case there will be some kind of fuss. Maybe not the singing but we talked about it and we want to throw him a party. The idea of a surprise party came up, but we both know I would probably blow it. I can't hide anything from Zeke, it's impossible. And since I can't be trusted to cook anything edible, my job is to invite our few friends...and convince Zeke to show up. Sasha thinks he's going to put up a fight but I'm not so sure. He'll just be there and never admit that he's enjoying it._

A indistinct clatter could be heard outside the bedroom window, which was open just a crack to invite in the mild, late November air. Attuned to any and all anomalous noises from outside, Casey lifted his head and listened for a moment, tapping the end of his pen on the page.

No Zeke just yet.

There was always generic city noise, an impressionist wash of sound made by millions of vehicles going to their various destinations all at once, with the occasional horn or an accidentally triggered car alarm dabbed on top. Since the bedroom window overlooked the alley, usually the only human noise he might hear in this room — if not Zeke's return — would be from the store downstairs. The stock room was directly beneath where he and Zeke slept, a feature of the building that had been brought to their attention only recently and quite suddenly; they'd been attempting to sleep late the other morning and were startled awake by an enormous crash from below, followed by an impressive and very distinct chorus of swear words from Tara. Once he had overcome the trauma of being torn from a deep sleep, Casey wasn't really surprised. Sound carried easily in this building. Sometimes, if the apartment was quiet enough, he could even hear the normal goings-on downstairs, and he was sure that he could recognize Stokely's voice with its particular timbre and frequencies. It was kind of soothing, actually.

Casey returned his attention to the page in front of him, already half full of blue ink. He'd been slow to warm up to this journal thing, but he would admit that it was beginning to feel less like a chore and more like a pleasurable release of its own kind. There was something perfectly satisfying about the way the liquid spilled out from the tip of his pen in a controlled flood. Right now he would have liked to put on his headphones and reduce the world to that blue stain and the blast of melody and rhythm — except that way he couldn't listen for Zeke's footsteps. And he'd had a couple of mega-shocks already when Zeke walked up behind him while he was immersed in his music. Those were experiences that he really would prefer to avoid from now on.

 _Zeke went out with W-Monster last night. Of course when he called he asked if it was okay with me. He said W has been a little down lately and maybe she has but I have my suspicions...I said it was okay, like there was anything else I could have said. I don't have the right to control where he goes or who he talks to, I'm not so far gone that I don't know that. I want him to do what he would do if I weren't around. He came back at 8:30 and I knew he would have stayed out later if it weren't for me. He smelled like a bar. I didn't notice anything that might have been her smell on him but that doesn't mean nothing happened._

 _I wish I didn't have these thoughts. I don't know why I can't stop believing that he's going to leave. I'm writing these words now and looking at them and telling myself they're probably not true but still I can't stop believing them._

 _If only she would go away and find someone else's boyfriend to hover over, everything would be better then. I don't like who I am now. I get these images, I guess you would call them fantasies, I see myself hitting her in the face and all over her body, again and again and again until she falls on the ground and then I stomp on her head and her face is all covered in blood. I even dreamed it the other night except in the dream she was about ten feet tall and when I punched her it wasn't just blood that came out of her, it was that white, foamy goo like the other time and she wouldn't die. It seemed like the dream went on for days before I woke up and I guess I was making some noise or something because I woke up Zeke too. He wanted me to tell him about the dream but I couldn't say "I just dreamed your girlfriend is an alien, no big whup, let's go back to sleep." I don't usually have dreams that I remember, thank fucking god. I have enough scary stuff going on in my head when I'm awake._

 _I'm not like this, I'm not. I don't think I'm a person who likes to hurt people but I'm afraid I might just explode one of these days. I told Yves about this stuff (didn't tell her about the white goo of course). Maybe I shouldn't have but I needed to tell someone. She just got her "I'm a doctor" look and wrote some things down. Then she said it isn't so uncommon to have violent fantasies, as long as we don't act on them. Well, duh. She said the thing is to understand why I react so strongly to this person and I should do a mood log every time I have a reaction like that. That's her answer to everything now. Do a mood log, Casey. Analyze those thoughts, parcel them up, make the feelings NOT REAL even if they are._

 _I skipped the breathing and the waving grasses today. Everyone's going to be so mad at me, they're going to look at me and see a big liar and never trust me to go anywhere on my own again — but it wasn't like I planned it. Sasha dropped me off like usual, I walked into the building like usual and then I just couldn't do it. It was so nice and quiet in the stairwell, I hid in there for an hour and then went home. Now I feel sick about it but Casey Connor learning to relax is such a waste of everyone's time, I'm just using a bed that someone else could benefit from. I'm not good at relaxing, I don't want to relax. Relaxing is the last thing I should do, especially now._

 _It's just a matter of time before he goes. It hurts him that I can still think that, and it bothers him big time when I bitch about W-Monster so I try not to say anything, I try really hard but sometimes I can't stop myself. If I really mattered to him like he says then he wouldn't hang out with her. I know how that sounds but if she's just someone to hang out with like he says — why does he need her? He's never been the kind of person who keeps people around just so he has someone to talk to. He must actually like her. He must like her a lot to keep seeing her and talking to her when he knows how I feel. He must need her in some way. I know he has to be desperate to get out of this apartment sometimes. He gets this look and I know he's thinking "Just get over it would you, I'm trying to have a life here." He wants to go to L.A. too but he hasn't really asked me and I haven't said anything either. I know him, he'll be agonizing about it, trying to decide what's Good For Casey. I'll bet he pours his heart out to W-Monster and asks her for advice because we all know he won't get objectivity from me._

 _This is for you Yves: That's all or nothing thinking, it's full of blaming and magnifying and SHOULD statements, and I'm overgeneralizing and mind reading. Zeke has told me numerous times that he wants to be with me, that he is only into her as a friend and we both need to have other friends and acquaintances for our relationship to be healthy. I don't really know what he's thinking so I shouldn't put all this stuff in his head, it's not fair to him. If I want to know what he's thinking, I can ask him. The shortest distance between scared and not-scared is a question._

 _See, I do my homework._

 _Except what if all that negative stuff just happens to be the truth? It could be. Everyone really could be an alien, or even if it's just some of them how can we ever be sure? I can't take it for granted that it's safe, just like I can't take Zeke for granted. He could be thinking that I'm more trouble than not trouble, I watch him, I see things on his face, he could be thinking he's tired of it all. That's the problem with this stupid CBT method, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean people aren't after you and your boyfriend isn't actually fed up with you. If I stop being vigilant I just know that_

— ah, there it was finally, the tramp of Zeke's feet on the metal stair just outside the bedroom window —

 _something bad will happen_ Casey scratched in a hurry and not very legibly, then closed the book and returned it to its secure place in the bedside table. He noted the time as just after six o'clock.

Zeke had been spending longer and longer hours on campus as the end of term approached. There were towers of library books piled on the floor around the computer, books which Zeke had yet to even crack open. Apparently there was some order to them because Zeke had made a point of telling Casey not to disturb any of the stacks. So there was no reason why Zeke couldn't work on his papers at home, no reason for him to be coming home later all the time unless he really wanted to stay away, really wanted to drink a coffee with Winona and talk to someone who didn't turn every conversation into soap opera — and of course to look at Winona because she was fucking gorgeous in the same sort of high maintenance way that Delilah was gorgeous, she was just lagging by about twenty years with her fashion decisions.

Casey scrambled off the bed I will not leap up and run to the door, not this time, I will not I will not and made himself walk to the front door at a reasonable pace, arriving in the entrance way just as Zeke opened the door.

From several feet away their eyes made contact. Zeke immediately braced his body in an exaggerated fashion, putting one foot back like he needed a stable base to withstand some extreme weather while he put on a face of okay I'm ready, love me, smother me, I can take it. His backpack hit the floor and one hand gestured wide in welcome while the other remained at his side holding a large paper bag of take-out from the Bayview.

Casey remained in place, his body quivering with what it wanted to do but wasn't doing.

A grin tugged on Zeke's mouth. "What, so I don't get molested today?"

Casey took the cue that he should be lighthearted, but his sense of humour sputtered and shorted out. "Not since it's so complicated for you."

"Complicated...?" The bag of food was emanating a deep-fried bouquet; Zeke set it down on the nearest flat surface and kept on smiling as he asked, "Say again — ?"

"Maybe you don't want me to jump on you when you come through the door is all," Casey said.

There — he'd murdered Zeke's smile. Hooray for him.

"That's news to me," Zeke said with a puzzled frown.

Casey looked at his feet, at his jacket and running shoes that he had left in a crumpled heap hours ago. "Just thought...I can wait a few minutes to hug you. Maybe you want to take off your shoes and...get organized...first."

"Get organized? Since when do I need to get organized?"

"Maybe you're tired of it," Casey finished in the most teeny-tiny voice ever to originate from a life-sized adult and that was just nice, really nice, really fucking well done make sure it gets more challenging every day why don't you do you know how crazy you are now do you?!

Zeke was solemn. "Where do you get this stuff?" he asked quietly.

The question was not rhetorical, but Casey didn't have a real answer.

"Never mind..." Zeke sighed, rubbing his forehead. He probably had a headache; he'd been getting quite a lot of them lately, and Casey doubted it was from an excess of reading. "Case...I've said this before but I think I need to say it again. Please don't try to tell me how I feel. Let me tell you, and you just assume that those feelings are constant until I tell you otherwise. If I smile at you or hug you, I'd like you to infer that it's because I want to."

It really was too bad that Yves wouldn't meet Zeke. If she ever did then she might believe Casey if he told her that he didn't need to learn the Cognitive-Behavioural method — because his boyfriend was the exemplar of it. They could have gone on the road doing seminars, Casey playing the role of the Many-Disordered Teen and Zeke the Right Response Guy...yup, Yves would have been impressed right now but Casey had no intention of getting her and Zeke together. Not that she had given up on the idea at all; she had asked Casey about it at every session since she first suggested it, three times in a row now.

Zeke had opened his arms wide. "Now...molest me, please. I look forward to it, and when that changes, I'll let you know."

Casey stepped forward even as the words rang and rattled in his head when that changes I'll let you know when that changes I'll let you know let you know let you know and if he were brave he would ask what that meant, but he was not brave. He needed Zeke's warmth holding him, he needed to be enfolded with the scent of cigarettes and library dust...after-shave with a hint of tired sweat...yes, just like that.

A long exhalation from Zeke took some of the tension from both of them. He stroked Casey's neck, trailing his fingers in his hair. "Case..."

"Zeke," Casey answered. He was not doing any molesting this time, he was just holding on with all his pitiable strength but now he might be able to smile. Now his company might be less of an all-around ordeal.

"I didn't want to sound so harsh."

"Not harsh."

"It's just...this end of term thing is starting to get scary. I have four papers due in two weeks...some on the same day, actually, and then I have to study for the exams too. It's just not going to stop until Christmas."

Encircling Zeke's abdomen with his arms and his whole body, Casey rubbed his cheek against the warm, soft cotton of Zeke's shirt and thought that the offer of a back and shoulder rub might be well-received later on. "Hmmm..."

"Hmmm? Can you translate that for me, please?"

"How far along are you on your papers?"

Zeke took himself out of their amorphous tangle of limbs and sensory information, stepping back so Casey could see his expression as he retorted, "Hey, I'll have you know I've picked my topics, I've taken out the books and I'm ready to start. I'm allotting three days per paper."

"Do you...do you need help?"

"Not with the typing, Case, I said that was just the one time."

"But I wouldn't mind..." And that was true. It would give Casey something else to do.

"I know, but I've got to improve those skills anyway. It would be a great help if you could edit me before I hand anything in this time...okay, Professor?"

"Ooh," Casey said with a shiver. "I just love it when you say 'edit me.' Say it again."

Zeke moved in close again, like he was getting ready to kiss him. "Oh, yeah, baby," he said huskily. His lips just barely traced the line of Casey's jaw. "Edit me...edit me hard." He nipped Casey's earlobe.

Casey suppressed a giggle, trying to duck under Zeke's arm. "No editing for you until you write something."

With the perfect application of physical prowess, Zeke hijacked Casey and pushed him up against the fridge, holding his hands up beside his head with palms pressed flat together. "I'll start tomorrow," Zeke promised, his eyes scanning Casey like he was considering where to descend. "Right now I have a few things to check off Tuesday's to-do list."

Casey challenged, "Sooner you start sooner it's done. You wouldn't want me to have to find someone else to edit, would you?"

It was just a tease, of course, and Zeke seemed more than willing to play along. Wearing an expression that was suitably authoritative, he bore down until Casey was compressed between himself and the fridge; he cradled Casey's jaw in both his hands, holding him as lightly as he would have held something fragile, contemplating Casey's skin with the pads of his fingers in such a way that his strength was meaningfully illustrated. His eyes and his breath were hot on Casey's mouth as he growled softly, "You don't edit anyone but me, Professor."

And Casey's entire body was galvanized, his skin tingling and thrumming, blood rushing to fill his lower extremities while his brain busily sketched a plan for the immediate future that started with him taking one of Zeke's fingers in his mouth and...okay, the middle parts were fuzzy but in the end he was face- and stomach-down on the table where they usually ate and Zeke was taking him apart piece by piece, devouring him.

Except there was something else they were supposed to be doing...Zeke was supposed to be doing...yes, only seconds ago Casey had been urging Zeke to do some homework. Knowing that so far this term he had been a serious deterrent to studying, he crumpled his game plan and muttered, "Then you need to get started."

He held to a brief hope that Zeke would ignore him, but to his disappointment Zeke conceded, "Yeah." He reached around Casey and grabbed the take-out. "Right after we eat. You didn't need the computer tonight, did you?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Quite sure."

"Okay," Zeke sighed. "So what will you do while I hit the books?"

He was probably just making conversation, but there was a strong suggestion that Casey would be in crisis if Zeke wasn't available to entertain him — and it was true wasn't it, Casey was a great, demanding void, a vacancy where Zeke must spend his body, his sex, and of course his time. "I'll just watch a movie."

Casey had stopped at "Video Now and Then" on his way home from the relaxation clinic, looking forward to Anton's ritual welcome as much as the prospect of a diversion from his histrionic thought processes. He and Anton were as close to friends as two people could get while knowing nothing about each other except that they shared the same passion. Anton had invented a game called "What Casey Hasn't Seen": Every time that Casey came in, Anton would have a movie picked out to challenge him, and he kept score on a piece of paper under the counter, tallying it by the week. If at the end of the week Casey was ahead in the count, Anton would give him a free rental. So far, Casey had finished ahead more weeks than he hadn't.

"Did you rent something?" Zeke asked.

"Yeah, I did..." Casey hesitated. He was about to be a bad influence again.

"So what did you get?"

"The Rock." Casey had chosen it for Zeke, who loved all Michael Bay-- Jerry Bruckheimer collaborations. In fact, The Rock was a house favourite — but stupid Casey, stupid! he should have thought before he did that, he should have remembered that Zeke had work to do.

"Oh, fuck," was Zeke's comment. "For me?"

Trying to seem casual, Casey shrugged. "I like it too."

"I could watch it with you," Zeke said, rapidly succumbing to the lure of procrastination. "Say if I do a couple of hours of work...it could be my reward."

Casey considered encouraging Zeke to keep on working instead, but it wasn't like he could be Zeke's conscience. Zeke would get things done one way or another, there was no doubt of that. "I'll wait for you to start it," Casey promised.

"Thanks," Zeke said. "That'll give me something to look forward to." He opened the bag of food, explaining rather unnecessarily, "I brought supper."

"What'd you get?" Casey asked, bracing himself for the bad news.

"Bayview burgers and fries..." Zeke let the threat of healthy food linger ominously for a few seconds, then finished, "And that's all. Acceptable?"

"Oh, yeah." With happy disbelief, Casey watched as Zeke unpacked two foil- wrapped bundles and two cartons of the Bayview's amazing homemade fresh-cut-from-a- real-potato-dropped-in-the-two-year-old-fat fries. Grease had soaked through the cartons in patches.

"Meets your nutritional standards?" Zeke queried.

"Mmm-hmm."

"Just know that I'm expecting great things from the next blood test."

Ignoring that, Casey stole a fry and made it disappear. His empty stomach growled and he made haste to grab the bottle of ketchup from the fridge, then to reach into the cupboard. Eating off real plates would be their nod to Sasha, who believed that even if you were eating take-out you should respect your meal enough to include some minimal form of etiquette.

Then Zeke smote Casey with an unprecedented question: "So how was relaxation today?"

The plates almost met their doom on the kitchen floor; at the last second Casey managed to hang onto them. Maybe Casey wasn't allowed to read minds, but Zeke took it as his personal prerogative. Or this was just karmic justice masquerading as random bad luck but it was beyond uncanny that Zeke would have to choose today to ask about relaxation therapy when he almost never mentioned it and ogodogodhe'llbemad Casey didn't want to lie. He had enough stress in his life without maintaining some new form of deception.

"Case?"

Trying on the plates for armour, Casey said, "I...didn't go."

Zeke tried to pin Casey with a direct look but Casey averted himself, half-facing the counter with his eyes lowered. "You didn't go...What do you mean you didn't go?"

"I..."

"Did Sasha forget to drive you?"

Casey stared at the counter top, at the food that only moments ago he had been looking forward to eating. "No, he...he dropped me off...like usual."

"And then?"

Zeke's voice was composed, aloof. It must sound a lot like that of the inquisitor in some medieval trial — completely contained, sated with its own power as the questioner waited for the wretch to hang himself with his own words.

Raising his chin slightly, Casey managed to meet Zeke's gaze. He said, "I just didn't feel like going, okay?"

Zeke returned the look. And kept looking, until Casey's chin dropped again, unable to sustain its own weight in the face of that steady, analytical consideration. Then and only then, Zeke removed without any resistance the tableware that Casey had been holding against his chest. Setting them down, he very gently turned Casey in his direction. "Why not?" he said.

"Because...it isn't...h-helping."

"I know it isn't easy, Case — "

Something broke inside and Casey had to get it out of him and into Zeke, he had to make him understand this thing, this one thing — "Yeah, and you need to stick — stick with it and keep practising blah blah blah but it never gets any easier and I just didn't want to — wanted to stay where it was safe not do this thing that doesn't help and it's just more danger it's so — I hate it, Zeke, I hate it — !" He gulped for oxygen.

Zeke's hand moved to grip his shoulder, squeezing it lightly in a gracious exercise of proprietorship. "Chill, okay?"

"Are you mad at me?"

"No, not really, no." The other hand indulged itself with Casey's other shoulder. "I can understand how you feel, Case, and I'm not just saying that. I have my doubts about that stuff too but I think...I think that in the long run it probably does help." With lordly aplomb, Zeke returned to unwrapping their supper, placing one burger on each plate and spilling out the fries evenly over the remaining open spaces. "Anyway, I don't think missing one session is a big deal."

So it will only be the one session, Casey, you are going to stick with it because I say so just like I say you will keep going to those other sessions that you hate since you know and I know that I can't show any leniency on this and still be credible and by the way you will only talk about the things I say you can talk about.

"I won't say anything to Sasha," Zeke promised, unsolicited.

The Bayview Burger didn't taste nearly as good as Casey had expected. Bacon, cheddar, swiss, and onions could barely stand up to the bitter flavours of capitulation.

They watched the sports highlights while they ate, or Zeke did. As usual, he asked Casey if he minded and Casey shook his head. People assumed that he didn't know enough to follow what he was watching. People thought that he hated sports, but he didn't — he didn't even hate football despite it being a form of organized gang violence. He especially never minded watching Zeke play football...Zeke crossing and re-crossing that field with his tight, hip-hugging pants and exaggerated shoulders, back and forth like he was on a Paris runway. Back then, Casey had made a point of getting all the rules straight in his head on the minute possibility that Zeke would one day strike up a conversation with him about a game. Zeke never did, just like he never made an attempt to involve Casey in what he was watching right now. He kept his eyes fixed on the screen, occasionally refereeing something out loud but never requiring a response from the Casey.

Casey would bet that Winona liked sports. She and Zeke probably talked up sports for hours on end while they played with their sticks and balls and drank beer.

" — right?"

Casey blinked in Zeke's direction. "Huh?"

"I said, you are going to finish that, right?"

Casey looked at his food. He had stalled and come to a dead stop with half a burger and a lot of fries left. "Yes," he murmured, and swallowed everything.

As soon as he finished eating, Zeke retreated to the bedroom to make a start on his term papers. Casey flipped channels for a few minutes, imagining that there was something that he would have liked to watch but finding nothing. His mind kept switching to the Zeke Channel...that well-equipped body, so adept at straddling the line between assertive and playful, so capable of making his brain shut up and shut down... so near and yet so far.

Shaking off those thoughts, Casey washed the few dishes and tidied up a bit, putting away his jacket and shoes so Sasha wouldn't have to come home to them later. For half a second he considered booting up the PS2 to amuse himself for a while, and dismissed that as requiring a little too much commitment for his current state of mind. Instead, he picked up the fantasy novel that he'd borrowed from Stokely weeks ago and had not yet started, taking it to the couch. He hadn't been at it more than ten minutes before his eyelids came down with a case of super-high density. He struggled with them for a while, forcing himself through half a page of political history of the hero's homeland...something about so-and-so's bastard son marrying the princess of the northern marshes...a civil war...another civil war...

When the phone rang right near his head, it was cruelly loud.

"I'll get it!" he hollered, struggling up onto one elbow. He didn't want Zeke to know that he had been asleep. He caught it before the third ring. "Hello?"

"Oh, hi...Hi, Casey."

The W-Monster.

"It's Winona," It added, like he couldn't have guessed, like Its voice wasn't a nerve-torturing, soul-destroying discord in his ears.

"Yes, I know."

"Haven't talked to you in a long time."

"No."

"Not since we went to that diner that time, basically...So how are you?"

"Oh, I'm just great."

"Do you have plans for Thanksgiving?"

He gritted his teeth, wishing It would get to whatever reason It had for calling. He said, "We're going to a friend's house." That was obscure, but he was not about to trace the degrees of separation from Charly to Stan, Stan to Stokely, Stan and Stokely to himself and Zeke.

"That's...that's nice. I'm going to Vancouver, I guess."

"Hmm."

He waited for It to deduce the obvious from his silence.

"I never got a chance to thank you for your help," It said suddenly.

"My...help?"

"With studying. I got a seventy-four on that mid-term. I was always a D-student in high school, you know, so this was...really awesome."

"Oh, that would have been you, not me really."

"But your suggestions helped. I just wanted you to know."

"Okay..." Some minimal politeness seemed necessary. "You're welcome, I guess, but I really didn't do much. You wrote the exam."

"I know." It sounded bashfully pleased with Itself. "Um...could I speak with Zeke, Casey?"

"He's busy...He's working on his papers."

"Oh."

"Maybe he can call you back."

"Okay, then...um, let him know I called?"

"Sure. Bye."

"Bye — "

He jabbed the talk button, hanging up just as Zeke appeared in the flesh before him. "I was going to talk to her," Zeke said, a vision of displeasure. "That was Winona, wasn't it?"

"I thought — "

"You could have asked me."

Putting the phone aside, Casey buried his hands under his armpits and stared at Zeke. "Thought you were busy."

Zeke half-smirked at Casey, barely amused. "Do you know how you look right now? Like a two-year-old who doesn't want to eat his broccoli."

"Fuck you," Casey muttered.

The smirk fell away, all demonstrations of good will about the situation now cancelled. Casey observed disbelief, hurt and latent fury, and there was still more to see but before he could catalogue the rest his body's reaction caught up with him. He let his eyes drop, quaking inside.

"Did you say what I think you said?" Zeke asked.

Casey said immediately, "No — I mean — I d-didn't mean it."

He couldn't get any current data about what Zeke was feeling with his head down like this but he didn't quite dare to look either. He sensed movement; Zeke came around the coffee table and sat next to Casey, leaving a slight gap between them. Casey held himself very still, dreading eye contact because then Zeke could see the truth, that even though he was remorseful he had meant what he said and he still meant it, which made him the kind of person who would hide and hide and hide — until suddenly he jumped out of his cave to flail in the face of a loved one, only to quickly hide again in fear of being seen. He was repulsive, and Zeke should be repulsed by him.

Zeke put a hand on Casey's knee. "You could have asked me if I wanted to talk to her, Casey," said The Most Patient Boyfriend on the Planet.

"Sorry."

"Oh, I know you are. What did she say?"

"Asked you to call her back."

"That was a long conversation for such a measly number of words."

To elaborate what each of them had said was impossible; they were trivial details and Casey could barely remember them anyway. Silence tyrannized room for some time as Zeke breathed and Casey trembled and waited for him to decide how much he would tolerate.

"I think it's movie time," Zeke decreed. His hand moved up Casey's leg, glided all the way up to his face to execute a single, brief caress.

 

While Sean Connery and Nicholas Cage drenched the screen in smarm, Zeke nursed a violent headache and a body full of Casey-induced knots. A certain fuck you of not so long ago was still blaring in his head — and hey, it wasn't like he couldn't handle being fuck-you'd. He could even handle Casey being angry at him, it happened often enough.

It was just that when Casey uttered those words Zeke had caught a glimpse of something worse and far more disturbing than anger. He saw his lover standing on a precipice looking over the edge for a good place to splatter himself and his fuck you was really a Watch me, just watch me now, this is how far you've pushed me and I'm going to put a stop to this now, I'm going to end this before you can end it for me so I'm self-destructing now and there's nothing you can say or do anymore. And then it passed and it was just the usual Casey struggling towards someplace less miserable than here. The usual Casey was pleased to collapse on the couch with Zeke and watch the movie, leaving Zeke to wonder if he had even seen what he had seen and how long it had been lurking beneath the surface of things.

On screen, Sean asked Nick, "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

"I'll do my best."

"Your best? Losers always whine about their best. Winners go home and fuck the prom queen."

"Carla was the prom queen."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

Normally this amused the shit out of Zeke but right now he wanted to tell them to just jump in the sack and be done with it. Right now, Zeke was getting a lot more out of just lying here spooned with Casey. He had one arm across Casey's chest, pulling him snug to his own torso, Casey had his hand twined with Zeke's, the headache was receding...essentially Zeke's body was telling him that there was nothing wrong, everything was a-okay hunky-dory, and he was almost buying it.

But then again, he was a total fuckwit. Time and time again he would stupidly let himself get too optimistic because they had a good night or a good moment, and then Casey would immediately yank him back by the short hairs. So what if Casey had shone at dinner with Zeke and his father? He'd just been extremely well motivated at the time. It had been a near thing, but actually wanting the night to be a success had made all the difference.

When it came to Winona, however, Casey didn't even want to try.

Okay, that was unfair because Casey did try in his way. He would never tell Zeke outright to have nothing to do with her, no, he would just lie constantly because he knew what he was supposed to do, how he was supposed to feel — and then for every officially endorsed minute that Zeke spent in her company, there would be an equal and opposite backlash. It might not come in any way that was predictable, but it would come and it would be visited upon them both.

Today being a perfect demonstration. Since the moment he opened his eyes Casey had been a mixed bag of personas; one moment it was pissy-prickly Casey and then a moment later it would sexy-slinky Casey, with occasional appearances from Don't-Try-To-Understand-Me-Because-I-Don't-Even-Understand-Myself, I'm-Not-Talking-To-You-Shithead and I'm-Just-Not-Talking-At-All. And just to highlight the full breadth of his range, Casey had tossed in the missed relaxation session, which had to be outright rebellion, and his telephone performance, which Zeke had heard almost in its entirety from just beyond Casey's sight lines. And for a scene-stealing encore...Fuck you.

If only Casey would comprehend that they needed Winona. She was not the love of Zeke's life for fuck sake, she was not even his best friend. Both of those positions were filled — but if Zeke were to just drop Winona now, if he were never to speak to her again, he and Casey would soon become a couple of co-dependent hermits. So he did have a point to make, dammit, and he was going to make it. He was not dangerously obsessed; he had other things to care about, like a new relationship with his father, an academic life, friends...and Winona was the proof. She was the Anti-Casey.

So he was spending a few extra hours with her here or there, and he really had thought that Casey could handle it. Yesterday's episode should have been a minor blip, not an epic disaster. It had started with a quick visit to the library towards the end of the day; Winona was feeling unsure of her ability to use the electronic database effectively and Zeke had offered to guide her through it. She had been better at it than she thought she was. In the end he only gave her some tips on how to narrow her search and, as usual, she'd acted like she'd just been rescued from academic ignominy: "You know I don't think I'd have made it this far without your help, Zeke."

Now that the ego rush had worn off, that stuff was getting to be tiresome. Not because he thought it wasn't genuine but because she continually refused to believe that she had anything to do with her own success. In fact, he was gradually discovering that she was not nearly as together as she had seemed in September. She was having difficulties with her roommate which meant that she was always keen to avoid going home. There was something about her relationship with her mother and her son that was upsetting her, and her boyfriend situation had fallen through — the latter being a piece of information that, in Zeke's judgment, Casey didn't really need to know. Winona had been hinting for at least a week that she needed a willing ear, and Zeke kept pretending he didn't notice. Not his most shining moments, but he didn't feel he had any compassion to spare these days. He just didn't have it in him to help her or anyone else whose name wasn't Casey — but she had been so wistful and hopeful yesterday when she asked him to join her for a few beers that he'd hesitated to say no.

"Maybe," he'd hedged. In a world without Casey, beer and pool would have sounded great. In the world they actually lived in, he preferred Casey's company to anyone else's.

"Call Casey and get the thumbs-up," Winona had urged.

Something about that comment bothered him. It was almost an undertone of — not dislike but perhaps impatience with Casey and he decided that this would be permitted to pass so long as she never made the mistake of articulating it. From an outsider's perspective it might seem that Casey was more trouble than he was worth, but that outsider didn't know shit. They didn't know that Casey would sweetly lie Go right ahead, Zeke, I'm fine hanging out with Sasha because he wanted Zeke to do what made him happy. They didn't know that Casey would willingly sentence himself to an evening of lonely terror while Zeke played at having social life; Zeke had gotten home after a cursory two hours with Winona to find that Sasha was out and had been out all day. Casey was curled on the couch with Casablanca playing yet again, and Zeke was pretty fucking sure he'd been crying.

The waters seemed to be rising quickly. Zeke was frantically treading water and quite willing to receive some assistance at this point; problem was, he had friends who would listen but none to whom he could really explain. There was Stokely, yes, but there were parts of this — really major parts — that you just didn't share with your female contemporary. Sasha was the nearest thing to a full confidant, and Zeke supposed it would be Sasha sooner or later except he was in no hurry to hear Sasha say told you so. Sasha wouldn't gloat, but he would let Zeke know that he had been doing something wrong. Zeke could not and would not hear that.

Because he was not wrong. He knew that just as certainly as he knew that he was smarter and stronger than most people his age. He knew that once all the layers of disturbance and sickness had been peeled away, this thing between himself and Casey would remain, a shimmering, luminous spark of something ardent and fun and entirely real, and he never stopped knowing that, not when Casey acted like some demented child, not when they fought or fucked or bruised each other, and not even when Zeke could see himself inevitably becoming the bad guy.

The credits were running. Hollywood justice had prevailed, Nick could go home to his prom queen — and Zeke had missed most of it.

Zeke petted Casey's arm and declared, "That was good. Stuff got blown up." When there was no answer he angled his head so he could see Casey's — sleeping — face. It had probably been a bad idea, lying together in this position; Zeke had no idea when Casey had dozed off.

Casey's eyes popped open. "I wasn't asleep," he said.

"Uh-huh."

"I wasn't."

"You were doing a pretty good imitation of it."

Casey fidgeted, playing with the hem of his shirt. "Okay, I was asleep."

"I know."

"I'm sorry, Zeke," Casey said, his voice thick with tears and entirely too heartfelt.

"For being exhausted?" Zeke returned lightly. "It's nothing."

"I tried."

"It's a fucking movie that we've seen about ten times. Forget it."

"Yeah, I know how you look forward to watching me sleep every day."

The level of self-reproach in that was alarming and Zeke winced, trying to think of something constructive to say in response. "Casey..."

Casey grasped for the remote, which had been balanced on Zeke's hip. "I'm being stupid, ignore me. Let's watch some of the extra material — "

Zeke got to it first and withheld it. "Naw, I wanna know what you meant — "

"Nothing — " Casey reached. "Zeke — c'mon!"

" — because if you think — "

"Gimme that."

"Nope."

They ended up wrestling for it. With his height Zeke had the natural advantage, because he could resort to just holding the remote over his head while he kept Casey pinned against him — until Casey pulled up Zeke's shirt, exposing his bellybutton, and used his tongue to draw a little circle around one of Zeke's most ticklish spots. Zeke very nearly shrieked, dropping the remote so he could grab Casey's hands and lay him out flat. "You're in trouble now, fruit loop!"

Casey made a respectable show of trying to buck him off, then gave up. Panting a bit from his recent exertions, he said, "Are you going to punish me, then?"

"Maybe."

"Can you do it without sitting on me?"

"It depends. Will there be any more kamikaze tongue on my ticklish spots?"

"Maybe," Casey said, using Innocent Expression Number Twelve. He was quite content to remain exactly where he was, apparently.

Zeke warned, "I'm going to let you up now — but I mean it! No tongue."

"No tongue," Casey echoed. A smile ghosted his lips.

Zeke got off Casey, letting him sit up and rearrange himself so they were side- by-side.

"Now then," Zeke said. "Your punishment."

"What are you going to do to me?" Casey folded his hands on his lap and cast a sly glance at Zeke, having every reason to believe, given past experience, that they would be carrying on with the game.

"The worst. I'm going to make you explain yourself."

The smile on Casey's face disappeared like the apparition it was.

Zeke proceeded, "You just implied that I don't enjoy hanging out here with you and I'm not about to let that one slide by. This is just a shot in the dark, but...are you thinking that maybe I'd rather be in some bar right now?"

"No." Casey turned his head away from Zeke as he said it.

"So my spending time with Winona last night has nothing to do with that comment, or you skipping relaxation or refusing to let her talk to me on the phone..." Zeke reached for Casey's chin. "Look at me, please."

Casey scooted further away, still with his head and shoulders averted. "But you did have fun with her, didn't you?" he mumbled into the corner of the couch.

"We shot a couple of games of pool. As fun goes, I'd give it a passing grade. Not the best time I've ever had but not torture either."

"Not like hanging out here, huh?"

Zeke didn't have it in him to rebut that misbegotten conclusion yet again, so he pretended he had heard something different. "If you're bored, you could always come with us, Casey."

"You don't want me with you."

And there went Casey doing it again... "Stop telling me how I — "

"You didn't ask me to come with you."

"It didn't occur to me that you'd be interested."

"Maybe I was, though."

"Okay, but it's not like you've ever..." Zeke muzzled himself before he said something unkind. He felt all sorts of devastating retorts pressing on his brain, urging him to victory. Except there was no winning this. He put his hand on Casey's shoulder, trying to assuage the trembling beneath his palm. "You're right. I should have asked."

The question came out of nowhere and thwapped Zeke right between the eyes, stunning him badly: "Do you miss being with a woman?"

Zeke fumbled, "Do I — what?"

Casey twisted around to look at Zeke. "Miss being with a woman."

"I have women friends."

"That's not what I...I mean for sex." Casey's eyes were riveted on him like dual microscopic lenses, narrowing and focusing to take in every twitch and bead of sweat. "It's a lot less complicated with a woman, isn't it?"

Zeke managed not to say Sex with just about anyone would be less complicated. He answered with all due caution, "I think it's always complicated somehow."

With practice, he had gotten to the point that he could actually see that moment when Casey crossed the tenuous line between himself and the frightened and frightening creature who would lash out in mindless, hateful jealousy. It happened halfway though Casey's next bit of speech. "But which way do you like better — ? With a girl...or with me?"

"There's no comparison," Zeke said briefly, knowing that any attempt he might make to comfort or reason with Casey would be useless at the moment. "Doesn't matter."

"But you've been inside us both, it must feel different. How is it when you're with her? Is it good and tight, does she moan and beg you 'fuck me, Zeke, fuck me' and you lose yourself and just pound into her until you can't see straight? I wanna know."

"I think I'm just going to forget I ever heard this," Zeke murmured and closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see what was before him — just for a few seconds, just long enough that when opened them he no longer saw the unjust accusation or the mania that had to reduce everything sensual to a state of pornography. He saw only that extreme emptiness that knew and hated itself too well. And seeing that, he found it in himself to say the words yet again, not because they would be heard but because they needed to be said:

"I don't want to be with Winona, I want to be with you."

There was a response, a glimmer of Casey behind the claws and teeth.

Zeke pressed further. "If...If you could just see Winona the way she is, maybe that would help. She's just an ordinary person, Casey. She's gets lonely and she wants friends...like the rest of us."

He was trying to invoke qualities that he knew to be a fundamental part of Casey's character but he what he got was nothing like what he had come to expect from the person opposite him — nothing like generosity, or even common politeness. "Why do you have to do that?" Casey hissed, eyes darkening again.

"Do what — ?"

"Why do you have to care about her?"

Whatever Casey's state of mind right now, Zeke was not going to tolerate the assumption that his capacity for human feeling was so limited, as if he didn't need to care about anyone who wasn't on a very select list. "Why should I give a fuck about anyone then?" he snapped. Maybe it was just time for Zeke Tyler to shed his old reputation of not giving a damn about anyone, maybe you've changed me, have you thought of that? Maybe I have plenty of feeling in me now, more than enough for one person because of you, and I mean the real you not this brittle, self-absorbed ghost of you in front of me.

Casey had shrunk from him and was now almost entirely balled up in his corner. "I know," he said in a monotone.

"Case..."

A hand came up where Zeke couldn't see, scrubbing at a face. "I know she's a person...with feelings..."

"Yes," Zeke said, encouraged by something that sounded like understanding, just a glimmer...

A glimmer that was soon lost, drowned in vitriol. "She needs a friend...especially...to hang out with...talk about sports...She knows about sports, right? I'll bet she knows about cars and wrestling, too... because she's the kind of girl that guys always like. I'll bet she's had dozens and dozens of guys like her..."

Appalled surprise held Zeke immobile for much longer than he would have wanted. Shaking himself, he shouted, "Casey, just fucking stop it!"

The monologue ceased instantly, leaving a streaked, stony countenance that vaguely resembled the person behind it.

"Fuck but I need a smoke," Zeke said, and heard his voice tremble dangerously. He hunched over, sitting on the edge of the couch, and put his face in the palm of one hand, rubbing his forehead in a fruitless attempt to banish some of his headache.

The wall in front of him broke and crumbled apart and it was Casey speaking to him once more. Casey said, "Zeke...I don't..."

Zeke couldn't give him the reassuring face that he was looking for. Zeke listened to the call of his cigarettes in his shirt pocket, and the bottle of Tylenol calling to him from the bathroom. Indecision over which voice to heed first kept him right where he was.

"I don't want to be like this, Zeke, I swear I don't — I don't want to be this person."

"I believe that," Zeke said.

"Stuff just comes out of me I can't help it — "

"You have to be able to help it, Case, because sure as fuck no one else can."

A devastated silence fell. They sat there like that for what felt like a long time, both of them completely bereft of arguments, or the will to argue for that matter.

It was time for a confession. Zeke lifted his head from his hand.

"Case...I'm feeling a bit lost here." Replaying that, he thought the words had a somewhat sinister ring to them and hastened to add, "I'm — just — I'm trying to help but I'm afraid I'm...doing the opposite of helping."

It took a long time for Casey to form a reply but eventually Zeke heard, "You...could..."

"Yes?"

"D-Dr. Yves w-wants..."

"What?"

"She asked if you would come to therapy with me."

Zeke blinked in surprise. "I didn't know that sort of thing was possible. What does she want?"

"She said — just to meet you."

"Um," Zeke said, skeptically. There had to be more to it than that but his immediate thought was Yes, yes, oh fuck, yes how he'd like to go to the professional and lay the whole damn conundrum before her so she could solve it for him. Not that such a thing was possible. He had to be practical about what she could realistically accomplish, and he mustn't forget that she was a shrink, a doctor. She had all kinds of authority to fuck with them, including the legal kind. She could be dealt with, but carefully.

Casey mumbled, "I...since I talk about us a lot..."

Zeke had no difficulty translating that: After listening to Casey for a couple of months, the shrink wanted some idea of what the truth actually was. "I see," Zeke replied absently.

"I don't know what she wants," Casey blurted out. "It makes me nervous and she said it was my therapy and it's up to me but she keeps pestering me..." He looked up at Zeke. "Will that h-help? If I say you can come? Will you feel better then?"

Don't leave me. Don't leave me, Zeke, please. I'll let you dissect me on a platter if you just say you won't leave me.

Suddenly Zeke was having a moment of empathy so intense that he could have cried from just that feeling...so exquisite, ugly and arousing all at once, it was a physical sensation from his gut deep into his groin, a shudder down his spine and a prickling on his skin. He reached out and brushed Casey's cheekbone with his thumb, watched Casey's eyelashes tremble slightly in response. "Maybe. Not to tomorrow's session anyway."

"But...will you?"

Please say you won't...but don't leave me.

"Let me think about it," Zeke said. He would do anything not to hurt Casey, and he'd also do anything to help him. His task was now to figure out which need to go with, because somehow the two had become mutually exclusive.

 

 _Nov. ?_

 _I can't get warm. I think I just zoned big time in the shower, actually I know I did. I must have been in there for almost an hour because the water was almost all cold when I came back. I was sitting in the tub which I don't remember doing. I've never been so cold. I'm wearing three layers of clothes and covered with my afghan right now and I still can't stop shaking. Zeke's long gone to class and I guess Sasha's still asleep, or he was since he didn't hear the shower running all that time. I can hear him moving around now._

 _I hate this feeling, I hate it. It's like something really bad is coming and I don't have any skin and the slightest noise or touch will hurt. This is the first one like this in at least three weeks. I'm always losing time here or there, but I haven't had one of these. Yves will want to know. We haven't really talked about them a lot, I think to her it's just another kind of anxiety or something and she wants to deal with the anxiety first so I can go about town like a normal person. Is it possible that the relaxation stuff actually was helping? I don't think so but can't be sure. I hate lying to Sasha. Anyway, Dr. Chakri said that being tired makes the anxiety worse so that might explain it. My sleep has been totally fucked. Tuesday night it was okay because I was so exhausted but I slept too late and then last night I just couldn't sleep at all so I had plenty of time to lay there and torture myself._

 _I guess I should tell Yves today about Zeke maybe coming to therapy but I don't really want to. He hasn't decided yet. Maybe if I'm really, really good, if I'm as sane as I can be and go wherever and whenever Zeke wants, maybe then he won't think he needs to come. It will be my own fault if he does, I acted so crazy the other night. It's like watching someone else when I remember it. I think I did better yesterday, I just have to keep it up. I will not think about W-Monster, she doesn't exist, I never heard of her and Zeke never met her. I will trust Zeke and not argue with him. I won't make any demands on him, I need to stop causing him so much grief. He has enough stress already._

 _Fuck fuck fuck I don't want him to come to therapy_

 _Can't stop thinking._

It was too much to put on paper; Casey dropped his pen there. His hand had become so unsteady that his writing looked like a stranger's...like the handwriting of some disturbed person.

"Just stop it," he muttered. You have to stop it, Casey, because sure as fuck no one else can, that was what he said right so just fucking stop...stopitstopitstopit, do it because Zeke says so and you'll never get warm this way so stop!

His hands and the tip of his nose felt icy; he pulled the afghan all the way up to his eyes. He tried to think warm thoughts. Hot tea, Herrington in July...kitten fur, sunshine, fleece sweater...kitten lying in a sunbeam wearing a fleece sweater...He was never going to be warm again and it served him right something terrible was coming...

There was a distinct thump from Sasha on the other side of the wall.

Casey pushed the journal out of the way and crawled out of his bed. He took himself to Sasha's door and knocked. "Sasha?" he said, trying not to let his teeth chatter too much. Not waiting for the invitation, he poked his head in.

Sasha was lying on his side in bed, flipping through a cookbook, his eyes still bleary from sleep. "Kitten? You okay?"

"Um...n-not really."

Sasha frowned over that for a few moments, then pushed the cookbook out of the way and lifted his covers, offering a nest for Casey — and ohgodyesohyes it was warm, blissfully, wonderfully warm. Casey got himself a double fistful of Sasha's flannel pajama top and dragged himself closer. Splendidly, deliciously, euphorically warm —

"Good god, Casey, you're wearing about ten layers here," Sasha remarked, tucking Casey's body in against his own. "Is there a blizzard outside?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"I...zoned."

"Where?"

"In the sh-shower...I came b-back and the water was cold."

"Oh, my poor kitten..." Sasha rubbed his back, trying to generate some heat. "It's been a while, huh?"

"Yeah."

"What happened?"

Casey snuggled and compressed himself under Sasha's chin, squirming until he had his hands up around his chest, inside a muff created by his joined sleeves. He yawned, almost completely comfortable for the first time since forever quite possibly and naturally now that it was daylight and he was dressed and supposedly ready to tackle the day, now he could fall asleep. "Couldn't sleep last night."

"Then crash for a little while," Sasha offered. "I'll just stay right here and read my book."

"Shouldn't."

"I don't believe in the Zeke Program, kitten. If you're tired, sleep."

"But...I don't want to be awake again tonight."

Sasha sighed. "Something is wrong, isn't it?"

It seemed like there was scarcely anything that wasn't wrong — apart from finally being warm and safe — but even that was wrong because he was telling a lie by being here with Sasha who was trusting he had done something that he hadn't.

"Do you want to tell me?" Sasha said quietly.

Casey gathered his courage. "I..."

"Yes, kitten?"

"What if — what if there was this thing that a person was supposed to do for their own good...and they knew it but it was so difficult for them that it doesn't feel like something good? Should they still do it?"

A pause, then: "I take it this isn't just a hypothetical question."

"No."

Sasha took another long while to ponder before he answered, "I definitely need some caffeine in my system before I unravel that one. How about you get up and make me some coffee while I brush my teeth, and then we can sit down and talk?"

Casey nodded, moving his stiff, chilled limbs with reluctance. He would much rather have stayed in his cozy nest and he didn't know that there was much to talk about...but this was how Sasha liked to do things. He shuffled his way to the kitchen, where he made the coffee — and tea, tea would help to warm him up. Food probably couldn't hurt either, but he found himself without the energy to really peruse the cereal cupboard. He pulled down his mug and hunted for a tea bag. Chamomile was definitely out.

No one ever took quite so long as Sasha did to brush his teeth. Casey had no idea what he did in there, but it couldn't be mere teeth brushing. At least it gave the coffee maker sufficient time to do its brewing; Casey had poured Sasha a large mug-full and had it waiting on the table when he sat down.

"So," Sasha began. "You don't want to do this thing anymore."

"I...never really did."

Sasha took a long pull from his cup while he considered that. "All right," he said, setting it down. "Fair enough. What's different now?"

"I just...feel like I can't."

"I don't understand, Casey. How is that you could last week but all of a sudden you can't this week?"

Addressing his tea, Casey said, "Fine. I don't want to do it."

Sasha stood up. He pulled out the chair that was nearer to Casey and dragged it over so that they were knee to knee. He said, "I was wondering how things are but I didn't want to ask."

Casey shrugged. "You can always ask."

"Well, then...How's the therapy going?"

He felt a sickly smile infecting his face. Sasha thought that they were talking about Dr. Yves and Casey needed to correct him...right away would be best. Except they could have been talking about Dr. Yves all along and there was a significant chance that Sasha would understand how the therapy was a trap that Casey had to escape from...

"Not so good," Casey answered, letting the moment of truth pass him by.

Sasha squeezed his knee. "I always thought it would be nice to have someplace where I could just talk about me without being accused of dominating the conversation. Is she not nice, this doctor?"

"It's hard to tell."

"Oh?"

"She's always so — " He struggled for a fair adjective. "Calm."

"That's probably a good thing."

"I guess."

"Well, kitten, it's possible that she isn't the right doctor for you. Do you mind if I ask...What does your Dr. Yves think about your alien thing?"

Casey clenched his hands around his mug. "I haven't told her."

Sasha reared back in shock. "But doesn't that make it...kind of impossible?"

That comment hit Casey with the force of a physical blow, and he wasn't entirely sure why. After all, it was nothing that he didn't already know. He heard his voice shake as he answered, "I can't tell her, she could lock me up if she wanted."

"It doesn't work like that, does it? I mean, look at Spadoni. He knew about it and he didn't lock you up."

"But Spadoni believed me," Casey corrected.

"I — didn't think he did," Sasha faltered.

"Everyone in Herrington believes me. They just need to be reminded."

Like he had reminded Spadoni...Spadoni who insisted and insisted that it never happened until Casey breathed the memory back to life. If he really wanted to, he could do that for all of them. Not that he had any intention of living in Herrington again, but it would be nice if people were a little more honest with themselves. They had good reason to hate Casey, he wouldn't deny that, but he wished they would remember their reasons. They made out that he was a freak who caused the entire country to view them with disdain, and that was true but it wasn't why they hated him. They hated him because he had taken something beautiful from them.

Uneasily, Sasha said, "I don't think I want to touch that one."

"No," Casey agreed.

"Either way...Spadoni knew you were harmless and that was why he didn't try to keep you from leaving, isn't that right?"

Harmless. It wasn't a word that Spadoni would apply to him, he thought — but he didn't want to correct Sasha again either.

Sasha frowned slightly at his lack of response and continued, "My point was how can Dr. Yves help you deal with this phobia that's keeping you chained to home unless you talk about that stuff with her?"

"I can't talk to her about it, Sasha."

"Then I can see why you're feeling frustrated."

"And that's why I think I should quit — "

Sasha's eyes widened, and Casey's hopes for an ally disappeared just like that. "No, kitten, it's important for you to keep going."

Casey washed down the lump in his throat with some tea.

"I'm sorry if that's not what you wanted to hear."

"It's what I expected to hear," he whispered.

"I know I'm on dangerous ground here, Casey...and I'm supposed to mind my own business, but I can't help but feel like you are my business so here goes. My honest opinion is you need to tell your doctor about the aliens, and if she doesn't believe you then you should find another doctor."

"And if she decides that I need to be locked up?"

"I really think that's unlikely, kitten."

"Zeke doesn't."

"Ah."

Casey took in Sasha's expression of annoyance. "Meaning what?" he demanded.

"Meaning that's really the issue, isn't it?" Leaning forward, Sasha said, "Kitten, has it ever occurred to you that Zeke might be wrong about some things?"

"Of course."

"Have you ever told him?"

"Yes!" Casey knew how defensive he sounded but he couldn't stop it from happening. "We have arguments."

"And who's right in the end? I'm betting it's always Zeke."

He barely knew what he was saying, all he knew was he wanted to acquit Zeke of whatever Sasha thought he was guilty of and the words came out before he could proofread them: "I'm the one who's sick."

"What?"

Sasha's face was an epic of protective wrath; Casey scrambled to explain before Zeke got in any more trouble. "My...my reasoning isn't so good."

"Then how about if I 'reason' with Zeke a bit?"

Casey clamped a hand on Sasha's arm, just in case he was planning to get up and do that very thing at this exact moment. "No, don't — ! Please don't do that."

Seconds felt like hours as Sasha's glower slowly faded to a concerned frown. He put his hand on top of Casey's. "I won't say anything to Zeke...for now."

Casey begged, "Sasha."

Looking to the heavens for strength, Sasha said, "Okay. You tell me to butt out, I butt out...but when you need help with something, if you want to talk, with or without Zeke...You had better come to me, kitten. I mean it."

"I will."

"Good." Sasha hovered in and kissed Casey on the forehead. "I love you, you know."

"I know...I love you, too."

There was a rather suspicious glitter to Sasha's eyes as he leaned back. "Now what do you say we talk about something relatively low key?"

"Please."

"You're going to speak to Stokely and Stan today about the birthday party, right? And Zeke, of course."

"Oh...yeah."

"Can you do it soon, kitten? Because I need to know how much foie gras and truffles to order."

"You're — you're kidding," Casey faltered, trying to switch gears along with Sasha.

"Yup," Sasha replied, with a wink. "But I do need to know if they're coming or not, to plan a bit."

"What are you going to cook...for real?"

"Some nice assorted hors d'oeuvres, I think. I have to look through my books." Sasha straightened up with a groan. He ruffled Casey's hair and said, "You may be designed to look perfect when you get up in the morning, but I can just imagine what I look like right now. I'm going to try the shower — I just hope there's some hot water or it's going to be an invigorating time." With a smile to reassure Casey that he held nothing against him, he headed to the bathroom.

 

For the first time ever, Casey didn't have a panic attack when he got to Dr. Yves' office, but it wasn't much to celebrate. All it took was being too drained and listless to care very much, and knowing that they were mostly going to do the same thing they had been doing the last two sessions: Working through the steps for the damned mood logs, page by page, exercise by exercise. Describe upsetting event. Choose words to describe feelings about it, rate intensity of the feelings. Identify thoughts before, during and after. Identify distortions in thoughts. Reformulate more realistic thoughts about event. Rate feelings again. Feel better.

Towards the end of the session, however, Dr. Yves did find it expedient to enter into some discussion of personal feelings.

"You seem very tired again, Casey," she remarked. For her part, she looked quite well-rested. She was wearing what he would call "K-Mart Casual" today, slacks and a slightly dressy form of sweatshirt with country-floral quilting on the front and a lacy collar peeking out at the top.

"I couldn't sleep last night," he answered.

"Why is that?"

"Too many thoughts."

"About?"

He shrugged. "Stuff."

"‘Stuff,'" she noted dryly, arching a brow and smiling. Even for him that had to be an excessively terse answer, and he found himself smirking a little along with her. "Casey, are you still taking your anti-depressants? Paxil, was it?"

"Yes."

"And you're still taking them?"

"Yes, Paxil and yes, I'm still taking them."

"Hmm...Paxil often has a significant sedative effect on people, but perhaps your body has adjusted to it. We might want to consider switching medications, especially if you're finding that your mood hasn't really improved lately."

Casey didn't think much of that idea, and he supposed it showed.

"It's not my preference either," she said. "You would have to go off Paxil and wait at least a few weeks before you could start taking something else. I think that might be a little risky still. For the time being, though, be sure not to forget to take the Paxil. After a while when we're not motivated by the same level of misery and it's just routine to take them, it can be easy to just let it slip."

He tilted his head, asked, "Am I at a different level of misery?"

"You tell me."

"I don't know...I guess." Sometimes he laughed when a thing was funny. He had managed to enjoy some things now and then, and some of them didn't even involve sex. Certainly, he knew he was thinking much more clearly; it was like a cloud had finally dissipated in his brain and sometimes he wished the cloud back because there was just so much to think and worry about. He would have liked to do other things with his brain, like school, but he just didn't know how to accomplish that when there was so much in his head already.

He said, "You know what's the worst thing about being miserable?"

"What's that?"

"It isn't that you feel miserable...It's feeling like you'll never stop feeling miserable."

"I know," she said, apparently sympathizing with him for once. "I know, but it can stop. And it will, if you let it."

"What do you mean 'If I let it?'"

"I mean that there are things you can do to help yourself. I'm afraid it's up to you, Casey. I can't make you well, Zeke can't make you happy...You make you happy."

"It's not that easy," he grumbled.

"Of course it isn't. If it were I wouldn't have a job. But I can only help you by showing you ways to help yourself."

He knew where she was going with this. "In other words...do your mood logs, Casey."

"Among other things, but yes. You know, you could do a mood log when you're lying there with too many thoughts in your head. It's the perfect time." Surely she saw him rolling his eyes at that suggestion, for she went on, "Or once in a while if you're really struggling with your sleep patterns it couldn't hurt to take a Xanax to help you get back on track. I wouldn't advise that to all my patients, but I know you've been trying really hard not to take too many."

"Okay."

"Now, what are the odds that a few of those things rattling around in your head last night were Zeke-related?"

"Pretty good," Casey admitted.

"Has he made a decision yet?"

His heart bruised itself against his ribcage; for a moment he felt certain that he had spilled to her about the possibility of Zeke joining him here soon and then somehow blanked it from his memory...but he wasn't at that stage of delusion yet.

This must be about Zeke going to Los Angeles. At a previous session Casey had told Yves about the dinner and how Zeke wanted to go to his father's wedding. Yes, that was mind reading but he knew it was true. The possibility of the trip had been referenced a few times since Mr. Tyler's visit, and Casey could read it on Zeke's face as plain as a neon sign — and why wouldn't Zeke want to go? He had a chance to renew his relationship with his father. Of course he wanted to go.

"No," Casey managed. "At least...he hasn't told me."

"What about you? Have you thought about your options?"

"No."

"Are you avoiding?"

"Yes, and I'd like to keep on doing it for a while, thank you."

Yves laughed for the second time within a half hour; that must mean that he was being extremely entertaining today.

"This is just a suggestion," she said, "but if Zeke were to come to a session I could talk to you and Zeke at the same time...maybe we could work out this whole Los Angeles issue together."

He began to pick at the upholstery on her chair...nope, she was not going to let this go any time soon. "Actually...I told Zeke you wanted him to come here."

"You did? When did you do that?"

He tormented the chair some more. "Last night."

"And what was his answer?"

"He said...he...said he'd think about it."

"That's excellent, Casey. Good for you."

Yeah, good for him, except that just the thought of Zeke being here had him on the brink of fearful tears. It could not happen. Well, it might happen, he had been the one to mention it to Zeke in the first place but obviously he'd been panicking about something else altogether at the time and so naturally he would stupidly blurt out whatever he thought would make Zeke feel better. He could only hope that Zeke understood how his offers were not to be taken at face value.

Guess he was not too tired to panic after all.

"If he comes here," Dr Yves probed. "Do you think you can handle it?"

"Sure," he said, starting to wheeze. "No...problem. Or...I might just...jump off our roof."

"That's not funny, Casey."

"I...know..."

"Is jumping off your roof something that might happen?"

"No!" he gasped. "But — "

"What?"

"Don't need to — can't — breathe — "

"Yes, you can, Casey. Breathe with me...slowly...you're okay..."

He inhaled and exhaled to her beat...He could do this, he was taking in air, it was working. His body knew how it was done. "I'mokay...I'mokay..."

"We should do a mood log now, Casey."

He puffed, "Not enough time."

"We can start it. What were your upsetting thoughts just now? Apart from ‘I might jump off the roof.' What will happen if Zeke comes here?"

"Nothing."

"Casey."

"I can't..." He had the book on his lap, and he hugged it against his chest as though she might try to pry it open. "I promise I'll try to do it at home but I can't now...please."

Silence while she studied him and weighed whatever factors needed to be weighed. He felt certain that she could see right through him, that she understood all sorts of things that had never occurred to him. Sometimes he truly wanted to read her mind, to sprout some psychic ability that would give him that little bit of insight. More often, he just didn't want to know.

"Just tell me then," she said. "Are there any topics that you definitely do not want discussed when Zeke is here?"

"W-Winona," he said at once.

Barely blinking, she returned, "I promise I will not bring up things that you don't want me to, Casey, but what if Zeke brings it up?"

"I know he will," Casey whispered.

"Would that be so terrible? Zeke's friendship with this woman is causing you a lot of distress — and Zeke too, I'll bet."

"It is, it hurts him...I was so terrible to him the other night. He said he felt lost and it scared me."

"Zeke isn't indestructible, huh?" Dr. Yves suggested.

"No."

"So don't you think it would be good for us to talk about this situation?"

"Maybe it would be good for Zeke," Casey said. "But not for me."

"You don't have a problem discussing it when it's just the two of us. Would it make so much difference if the three of us discussed it together?"

Casey pressed his lips together and shook his head slightly.

"Well," she said after a significant pause. "It's just about time to go. I would still like you to do that mood log, Casey, please. The sooner the better, while the feelings are still fresh."

Headline: Casey's Fresh Feelings Served Here! Get em while they're hot! "About which part?" he asked meekly, forcing down the frenzied laughter was skulking at the back of his throat.

"Your reaction to Zeke possibly coming with you to therapy, for a start. And perhaps also what were just talking about here."

He nodded quickly, anxious to be on his way home.

"Casey."

"What?"

"Don't forget that you have the right to tell Zeke how you feel about him coming to a session."

"Thanks," he said, rising from his chair. "But I already told him."

The panic was simmering afresh when he hit the sidewalk. Right, it was up to him to not be scared but he knew something was going to happen something terrible something terrible something terrible and scared was perfectly appropriate. He scuttled home and was going to bolt straight up the stairs and into his bed when he remembered his promise to Sasha earlier.

He veered into Wellth, causing the welcome bell to erupt. Tara was on hand, and she spun about wearing that same scared-threatening face he remembered from the incident in the apartment so many weeks ago.

"Hi," she said, watching him carefully. Maybe she would feel better if he were to tear off all his clothes and run naked and shrieking up and down the aisles, maybe then she would be satisfied and just pity him in private. He turned his eyes to the bin in front of him... organic whole wheat farfalle...a long shiver went down his back and he knew it was going to happen all over again the second time today or was it the third...organic rice linguine...organic soba...he wanted to lay down with a Xanax so bad...orzo...fettucine...so bad...brown rice basmati rice lunenburg brown rice...

"Hey, Case."

He startled. Stokely was standing right in front of him, having somehow crept up on him. Right then he decided that he was going to take a pill the moment that he got home and sleep until tomorrow arrived. He'd had enough of failing at being brave this day, this week, and if he was asleep he couldn't cause anyone more trouble. "H-Hi, Stokes."

"You okay?"

"Oh, um...fine." In fact, he was already feeling a little better, having made the Xanax decision.

"Did you just get back from therapy?"

He nodded, wondering when his schedule had become a matter of public interest. "Need to talk."

"Of course!" Stokely looked excessively pleased at his request. "Could we go across the street?"

He shifted his weight, gnawing on his lip. The last time he had sat down at Zorba's was with his parents. Impossible to believe that had been two months ago but it was, and since then he hadn't sat down anywhere that was not home without Zeke or Sasha present.

"Just a little while?" Stokes pressed.

"Ten minutes?" he proposed, imagining himself telling Zeke about it later and then Zeke smiling and saying You've made so much progress, Case, I don't think it's really necessary for me to join you in therapy, do you?

A smile bloomed on Stokes' face. "How about thirty?"

"Fifteen."

"Twenty."

"Done," he said. Twenty minutes, and then he could have his Xanax and his sleep as a reward. He waited while Stokely fetched her sweater, deliberately not noticing Tara's fascinated gaze.

Across the street at Zorba's he grabbed the most secure table he could find, in the corner by the front window. It wasn't the one most accessible to the door, but it did give him a view of almost the entire coffee shop plus the sidewalk outside. He took a seat with his back to the wall, trying to control his vital signs. Stokely followed him but remained on her feet and asked if she could get him anything. Clinging to conversation to distract himself, he gave her a five and requested a cup of decaf. She raised an eyebrow.

"All right," he muttered, taking shallow breaths. "Just...bring me herbal tea. ‘Misty Mint'...that's about my speed."

"You could try one of the special tea drinks," Stokely sympathized.

"Like what?"

"Chai Latte, Brit's Delight..."

"What's Brit's Delight?"

"Earl Grey and steamed milk with a shot of vanilla."

"Doesn't Earl Grey have caffeine?"

"Oh, right..."

"I guess that leaves the chai, assuming there's no caffeine in that." Casey had heard of chai, but never tried it.

"I'll check," Stokely promised, heading for the front counter.

It was very lonely waiting for her but it did give Casey time to acclimate himself to the space. He counted the people in the shop and reminded himself that this outing had a prescribed end time; he only had to be lucky for twenty minutes. He let his sleeves fall down over his hands, warming them, and conjured up Zeke again...there he was sitting in Intro to Sociology and then it was on to Major World Religions and then finally home...oh, but first there would be squash with Stan. More time for Casey to sleep. When Zeke got home Casey would be rested, and he would be sweet and good and not debate anything but maybe he would mention how he had coffee at Zorba's with Stokely and Zeke would see that things really weren't so bad —

"Here we are. The guy says they use a syrup that's caffeine free, so it's all good." Stokely positioned a cup the size of a fishbowl in front of him. The liquid was covered in white foam with flecks of spices. It smelled like nutmeg and some other festive fragrances. He lowered his head so he could sip from it without lifting it. "Well?" Stokes said.

"It's delicious," he replied truthfully, and dared one long, satisfying breath. Fully functioning lungs were a beautiful thing.

Stokely looked gratified to have finally found a tea beverage that Casey could enjoy. "Hey, it's so cool that you're going to be at Thanksgiving dinner with us. I never thought Zeke would agree to it." With a wry smile, she added, "I'll just bet Zeke is strapping up for battle right now, huh?"

"Um..."

"Come on...I bet he shows up next Thursday with that don't-mess-with-Zeke- Tyler look on his face. He could try to be a little less paranoid."

"But Stokes..." Casey trailed off. Aunt Charly was Stokely's friend, after all.

Stokely knew what he wanted to say anyway. "What does Charly want?" she suggested.

"Yeah."

"Nothing, really...except she just wants to ask a bunch of questions."

"Why?"

"Because she believes in life on other planets and she's curious." Stokely shrugged. "I don't really blame Zeke for being the way he is, I guess."

"You don't?"

"I know how he feels, not wanting to talk about it. I don't think I could stand to have all that in the news again. I hated it before." Stokely's brown eyes flitted up, tugging at Casey momentarily. "I don't want to see you hurt anymore, Case, and I know Zeke doesn't — so I understand if that's what he's afraid of." She reached out, patted Casey's hand. "I wouldn't be Charly's friend if I thought she wanted to do that to you."

He nodded, believing her.

"When I first met her she did ask a lot of questions, and I didn't mind because I knew she wasn't thinking that I was lying or crazy. It's just such a good feeling when someone believes you."

Casey tried to imagine what it would feel like to tell the story to someone who would accept it. He didn't get very far. To be polite, he returned, "I guess she's one in a billion."

"Case, tons of people believe in extra-terrestrial life."

"Yeah, and I'll bet most of them would ship me off to the loony bin in a second too. ‘You say your mom is an alien? Okay, kid, come on over here, I've got a nice white jacket for you to try on...'"

"Good afternoon, Mr. Casey." Somehow Casey had missed Thomas Kirton approaching them. He was standing right next to their table wearing a friendly smile along with slacks and a polo shirt, and Casey asked himself why it hadn't occurred to him that he would run into this man. It now seemed confirmed that Thomas spent most of his time in Zorba's. Maybe he even slept here.

Casey put his hands flat on the seat on either side of himself, to hold himself still. "I — I'm talking to a friend."

Thomas addressed Stokely, whose eyes were perfectly round and stunned. "Greetings to you, miss. Would you introduce me, Mr. Casey?"

Casey's voice didn't want to work, so Stokely introduced herself. Thomas nodded and smiled, and gave her his own name.

"And you know Casey," she said wonderingly.

"We've run into each other a couple of times now. I have a little caffeine habit, you see. My apologies for interrupting, I saw you sitting here and thought I'd say hello." Thomas kept his gaze fixed on Casey. "Your hair is a very interesting colour — or colours, I should say."

Stokely chuckled. "Interesting is one word for it."

"It's quite striking. And how are you, Casey?"

"Fine," Casey muttered.

"I believe I heard you say ‘My mom is an alien.'"

There was no real reason to panic, but Casey's body didn't generally listen to reason.

"We were speaking metaphorically," Stokely threw in quickly. "You know mothers...can't live with ‘em, can't live without ‘em."

"Ah. In that case, I'd have to say that my mother also is an alien." Thomas paused, and again addressed Casey exclusively. "It is a pleasure to see you sitting here so comfortably, my friend."

"What do you mean?" Casey ground out.

"Just what I said."

"You don't know me."

"I know you a very little," Thomas corrected. "I would like to get to know you better." His eyes held Casey for a moment longer. "So then...I'll see you soon, I hope."

Casey watched Thomas leave the shop, not daring to lower his defenses until the man was out the door.

"I remember that man from that time when I was here with Zeke and you showed up," Stokely said. "So now you two are pals?"

Thomas waved as he passed by them in the window.

"I — he — " Casey put his hands back on top of the table, clutching his chai. He couldn't sit still.

Then Stokely had a hand on his arm. "Case, it's not worth freaking out."

"He — just kind of introduced himself."

"I've seen him in the store, too. He bought some stuff." Stokely tried a smile. "I think you have an admirer."

"No — no, he said — "

"Don't get so worked up, I'm sure he's just being friendly — and you should do this more."

"Do what?"

"Chat up guys in coffee shops."

"I'm not!" He was not chatting up anyone...and he was breathing not panicking, not panicking... but it was almost three and he was supposed to be at home. Zeke would be phoning shortly and he would expect Casey to be there, not at Zorba's where any stranger could walk up to him and call him a friend, he would be concerned if Casey didn't answer the phone which was the last thing Casey wanted today. He couldn't have today be like Tuesday. And once that call was finished, Casey would be ready for his Xanax sleep. He said, "Can we go to the apartment? Please?"

Stokely was frowning slightly but she said, "Sure, Case."

She made like she was going to escort him from there to home but he didn't particularly care. He picked up his pace, not once but twice, and she ended up nearly running to keep up with him. Once he was inside his own door, which he shut immediately and locked, he felt the madness beginning to subside. He immediately went to get the phone and brought it to the kitchen table where Stokely was sitting, recovering her breath.

"Case..." Stokely ventured. "You know I was just teasing before. I'm glad to see you interacting with someone new is all."

His legs felt a bit shaky; he sat down, still holding the phone. "Don't tell Zeke. Please."

Stokely pressed her lips together, then said, "I won't tell him, although it's not like you've done anything wrong. I thought Zeke was way over the top before. He's really gotta curb that possessive crap."

Casey squirmed and drummed his fingers on the table. He wasn't sure what he could say that wouldn't prompt a spate of questions and he was tired of his well-meaning friends and doctors having opinions about his relationship with Zeke. They seemed to be coming at him from all sides today.

"It doesn't bother you," Stokely observed.

"No," he said curtly. And even if it did, he didn't want to participate in criticizing Zeke with her. He was not going to do it.

"It's his style, I know, and it always has been — and god knows he's really good at being in charge but one of these days you need to decide something for yourself, Case."

"I do."

"Oh, yeah? So what did you decided about the part-time job?"

Casey had completely forgotten about it until this moment. "Oh, right...I don't think so, Stokes."

"You talked to Zeke about it, right?"

"He wanted to know what it was..."

"Let me guess," she said, a bit sourly. "He didn't think so."

Wanting to explain and defend Zeke, he started out calmly enough — "I don't want the job, Stokes, and I don't want to talk about how Zeke is good for me or bad for me — " except his voice rose steadily until it was almost a shout — "or too controlling or whatever. Between Sasha and the shrinks I get more than fucking enough of that!"

Actually, he was shouting, and Stokely had gone pale and bruised in the eyes. "I'll stop being a lecture mouth," she whispered.

"Stokes..." He put the heel of his palm against the side of his head and tried to grind down the knot at his temple. "I'm sorry. I know you're just being my friend."

Her eyes were watering despite her very visible attempt to control them. "I am your friend, Case. You know that, right?"

"Yes," he confirmed. "I do...I'm just really tired right now. I didn't mean to yell at you."

"Okay," she said, swiping at a suspicious track of moisture on her face.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"Okay."

He looked at the phone, willing it to ring so he could hear Zeke's voice...couldn't see the clock from where he was sitting but it should be any minute and that would help him relax and he could lie down and sleep...once Stokely left...Stokely whom he had just verbally abused, she was his friend a good friend wasn't she and if she stopped being his friend it would be his own fault — "Hey, Stokes...I was going to ask you something."

"Yeah?"

"Zeke's birthday is in a couple of weeks."

"Oh..." Stokely cleared her throat. "What's the date?"

"December second. Sasha and I...we're going to throw him a party, will you come?"

She made a goofy face. "Of course."

"It'll be on the Sunday, whatever date that is because that's when Sasha is off."

"That's fine, I'll ask for a Monday off so I don't have to worry about getting up the next morning, I can just party to my heart's content. Can I help with anything?"

"Um...thanks, but probably not. Sasha's going to make the food."

"Maybe I could bring something? I could make a cake."

She seemed to really want to, so Casey said, "Okay, sure..." and prayed that Sasha wouldn't feel usurped and that it wouldn't be a gluten-free cake with wheat grass icing.

"And we could go shopping for party favours, you and me," Stokely suggested with a mischievous gleam.

"Party favours?"

"Yeah, you know...hats, balloons, maybe some pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey..."

"Zeke will hate that."

"Exactly." Stokely all but rubbed her hands like some evil genius. "It'll be good for him...So who else is coming?"

"Just us, I guess...Sasha, Jerry, you, Stan..."

"Do you want me to mention it to Stan?"

"Um...I can do it."

"I don't mind, though. We've been talking on the phone a fair bit." Casey blinked at Stokely in surprise and she said, "It's no big deal...I'm just not mad at him anymore. So do you want me to ask him?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

"What about Winona?"

He grimaced; to his annoyance, Stokely chuckled.

"Case, maybe I'm taking my life in my hands here, but...you and Zeke are a real pair, you know. I pity any woman, man or alien who makes the mistake of trying to get between you."

"You think I should invite her?"

"Hey, I don't care. I'm merely pointing out that she's Zeke's friend and might actually want to celebrate his birthday too."

"I don't know what he sees in her," Casey pouted. "It can't be the conversation."

"Rowrr!" Stokes said slyly. "As a self-taught bitch on wheels, I'm impressed. Good tone...just the right hint of a sneer, nice implied insult to her intelligence..."

The three o'clock call had arrived. Casey didn't wait for Stokely to finish if she wasn't already; he instantly pressed talk and had the phone at his ear.

Zeke spoke first. "Hi, Case."

Casey saw Stokely looking at him with deep concern and willed himself to sound as normal as he could while listening for any noises in the background that might hint of suspicious activity. "Hi."

"You okay?"

"Sure."

"How was therapy?"

"Um...Stokes is here."

"Ah...we can talk about it later, I guess." Zeke probably didn't intend for that to sound like a threat but it did all the same and now that Casey really analyzed it, there was something altogether Not Right in Zeke's voice, something that made Casey's stomach began to hurt even before he heard the next part. "Case...I have a big request."

The discomfort in Casey tightened. "Oh, yeah?"

"We just saw this poster for a lecture that's happening tonight at six o'clock, it's on ‘Paranoia in Contemporary America'. It sounds really interesting...well, obviously it sounds interesting to me or I wouldn't be asking you this and I know I'm kinda procrastinating about the papers but...anyway, I'd really like to hear it. I know it's a lot to ask."

It came out before he could think of stopping it: "With Winona?"

"Yes," Zeke said tightly. "With Winona."

This had to be a test. Zeke had noticed how he was trying to create an illusion of mental health and was testing him to see if he was actually just as unhinged as he had ever been. And Casey didn't know the right answer. He didn't know, he didn't know...he didn't know and could barely think, his head whirling and clicking and spinning...If he said yes then Zeke would be upset at him for not being honest about his feelings. If he said no then Zeke would be upset at him for being insecure about nothing and would insist on going to therapy with him to talk it out. So if he said yes then maybe Zeke wouldn't go to therapy and maybe that was the whole point of this test but if he said yes he wouldn't be able to hide how it bothered him and he'd be lying again and Zeke would find out and then Zeke would be guilty and upset again and would definitely come with him to therapy but if he said no...

"Casey?"

His heart was racing along with head; he was sure that Zeke could hear it. "Zeke," he whispered.

"I don't want to go if it's going to be an issue. If you'd rather I didn't go, just say so and it will be okay. You believe me, right, that it will be okay?"

In his mind, Casey saw an image of Zeke and Winona sitting in a great marble hall listening to some academic breaking down and analyzing this delusional type who believed people were out to get him. "Fine," he said, wondering what Zeke would do if he just screamed into the phone.

"Huh?"

"I mean, go ahead. I'll see you later."

There was a pause.

"Are you sure?" Zeke asked.

Are you lying again, Casey, are you just trying to pass this fucking trick question by telling a lie so you can be noble and pissed off later are you ever going to get over yourself so we can do normal things like normal people can I go and enjoy this will you let me or do I have to feel guilty can I ever believe a word you say —

The word came out strangled: "Yes!"

"What are you going to do?"

"Take a pill and sleep," Casey replied, and it was nothing but the truth.

"But Casey — "

"I'm going to be fucking unconscious so you might as well enjoy yourself, Zeke. In fact, you should stay out as long as you like."

When Zeke spoke again, his voice was tighter than ever. "I'll be home by nine."

Click.

Zeke hung up. On him.

ZekehunguponhimclickZekehunguponhimclickZeke...

From some distance Stokely's voice reached for him. "Case? What's wrong?"

"Zeke's going to a lecture with Winona," he heard from himself, his lips and tongue so numb he didn't know how he was making sounds, let alone words. "He'll be home...late..." He couldn't stay sitting, he stood up and thought about going to the kitchen for something or was it the bedroom he wanted and he was making quite a good effort at holding himself together wasn't he?

Then the walls spun as Stokely grabbed him and held him. "I'm going to take a chunk out of Zeke," she vowed.

"No..." he mumbled over her shoulder. His eyes were dry, burning and arid in their sockets. He rasped, "It's not his fault. It's her."

"I really think..."

"She's trying to get me, she hates me. She wants him."

"As your friend, Case, I have to tell you that's ridiculous."

"No, I've got to get her before she gets me."

"What you need to do is trust Zeke a little more."

"I do but it's...I'm...not...good for him. He'll have to leave..."

"For Christ's sake, Casey, he's just a guy."

He pulled away from her almost violently, pushing her back. "I know that," he said dully. She stared at him, her face creased with dismay.

The phone rang again. Casey took a step towards the table, reaching for it, but Stokely got to it first.

"Zeke? It's Stokely. You had better have a fucking good.." Her mouth thinned as she listened to Zeke's voice. It was almost loud enough that Casey could hear what he was saying. "Yeah, where else would he be?" She handed the phone to Casey with, "He wants to talk to you."

Casey snatched it from her. "Zeke?"

"I have the solution," Zeke said, breathless.

So you're never speaking to her again? Casey thought, and laughed bitterly to himself.

"Case? Did you hear me?"

"You have the solution," he parroted.

"Yes...You should come to the lecture with us."

Casey said the first thing that came to mind: "I was going to take a pill."

"But this is right up your alley, Case, and you know how you've been trying to decide if you're going back to school in January...This is a chance to test the waters."

As a weapon, Zeke's logic was as devastating as ever. One smart bomb and Casey was on the ground, barely able to lift his head let alone use it. On the surface it was ordinary common sense but the core of it was a challenge: Come on, Case, show me how together you are show me how Tuesday was just a blip this should be no problem for you since you're okay with whatever I do.

"And I'd really like it if you came," Zeke added, finishing him off. Of course he wanted Casey there, he wanted Casey and Winona together, like...like before, he wanted it both ways and he would have it because You can't have me without her.

Casey closed his eyes. "Okay, I'll come," he said, bemused by the sound of separate phonetic component forming and falling away from his mouth.

"Did I hear you say — ? You said you'd come to the lecture with me."

"Yeah."

"Oh...okay..." Zeke's voice came off surprised and excited, like there had been some doubt of him getting his way. "I'm going to meet Stan for squash, Case, but I'll come and get you right after that. That'll give us plenty of time to get there."

"Or I could meet you."

"You'd...take the bus by yourself?"

"Why not?" Casey said flatly. "I'm in the mood."

"I don't know..."

Well, two could play at logic games... "It doesn't make sense for you to come all the way back here to ride the bus with me."

I'll go with you, Stokely mouthed. Casey shook his head at her.

"You're right, Case," Zeke said then. "But you've barely even been on campus. I'd much rather come and get you." The prospect that Winona might be hearing Zeke saying that at the other end paralyzed Casey long enough for Zeke to get in some more words: "Or maybe Stokely could come with you."

"I went to school all by myself for two years, Zeke," Casey snapped. "I can handle a bus ride."

"I know that," Zeke said wearily.

"So I'll meet you there."

"Fine."

"Where is it?"

"There's a bus that comes at five-ten, it's number sixty-seven. Get off at Gate Four and walk in a more or less straight line, right past the fountain. I'll meet you out front of Kane Hall at five-thirty."

"Kane Hall, five-thirty," Casey confirmed. "See you then."

"Right."

"Bye." He hung up quickly, before he could break and beg for clemency.

Stokely was looking at him in a way that suggested that he was very brave and very much insane, and she was about half right. "Case...why don't you...I mean..." She was fumbling for words, trying to handle him but not wanting to be snarled at either.

"I can do this," he said, trying to convince himself. "Don't worry."

"I could go with you and get off a couple of stops early...so no one would know."

That actually had the power to bring a smile to his face. "Thanks for the offer, Stokes," he said, meaning it. "But I'll be okay."

She nodded.

Because an extra apology never hurt, he said, "Sorry I've been so cranky today. I had a lousy sleep last night. I'm just going to try to lie down for a couple of hours before I go."

She was still nodding, until she realized that was her cue to go. "Oh. Okay, I'll be going — but if you change your mind, call me."

Shortly, the door closed behind her and his brain started to chant with a kind of deranged glee something terrible...something terrible...here it comes... He tried to ignore it, going into the bedroom and letting his eyes close for a while, mourning the loss of his Xanax — but he'd just have to try to sleep without it, and with any luck he'd accidentally sleep through this whole twisted excursion.

 

"...if we examine our citizen's ‘paranoia,' for lack of a better word, it does resembles clinical pathology on the one hand, while in other cases it is very nearly a system of faith. In both instances there is a profound belief in a virtually omnipotent presence working towards some purpose. In the case of one who commits to some conventional religious system, however, that presence is in most cases ultimately well-meaning towards humanity. In the case of our paranoic, their omnipotent presence is malevolent and its primary purpose is to destroy a fantastic, mythologized version of the good life. This is where we tend to see beliefs about hostile extra-terrestrials, although in some instances there may enter in a presence or faction with more benevolent purposes who are working actively to counter their imperialist cousins. If there is any aspect of these popular beliefs that approaches spirituality, it is the figment of the well-meaning alien possessed of technologies and understandings that are far beyond us, and who reaches out to us and interacts with us in ways that we cannot understand, much like God with Job."

Zeke cast a sidewise glance at Casey who was to his right in the aisle seat. He seemed to be trying to make himself as small as possible while staring intently, almost feverishly, at the man who was speaking at the front of the room. Zeke wondered if he was as engrossed in the lecture as he appeared to be. The man at the podium was grey-haired, wearing a grey sweater-vest, and unfortunately possessed of the kind of voice and manner that could transform even the most fascinating content into the sound of paint drying.

On Zeke's other side, Winona squirmed and uncrossed her legs. "These seats are brutal," she whispered to Zeke.

Zeke nodded, resenting the demand on his attention. He scanned the lecture hall, which was nearly full. Apparently this speaker was a bit famous, at least in his own field; Zeke hadn't been expecting there to be quite so many people.

Nor had he been expecting that he'd be quite so uncomfortable. He should have been just a little bit happy, after all it was a fantasy of his, himself and Casey in the halls of academia. Casey had even tried to make it better for him by taking full responsibility for transporting himself — just the way it should have been, and could have been if not for things like genetic fate and that gift for trouble. And still it all felt completely and utterly wrong.

Zeke glanced over at Casey again. This time Casey caught his eye and gave him a small, pained smile.

It was all so fucked up. Their argument earlier shouldn't have happened, and it was his fault, caused by his insisting to himself that he wanted to do this when he really didn't. Sure, the topic had sounded interesting and all other factors aside he would have chosen to hear it without hesitation, but all other factors were not aside and he could have found much more enjoyable ways to spend the evening without violating any of them. He and Casey could have been at home together right now — they could have been naked and argument-free for fuck sake, he could have had that tonight and he'd tossed it away for this on the conviction that this was in the best interests of everyone concerned.

"The crucial way in which our paranoic differs from a person of faith is the central tenet that his own people have in some way sold him out, and by that I mean government, quasi-government and public institutions. This understanding by no means sprang to life in certain popular media products, but pre-existed it. An excellent example would be..."

Or maybe there was nothing inherently wrong with this scenario and he was just starting to be far too good at empathizing with Casey. Maybe this was exactly how Casey felt all the time — every last thought and twitch of instinct running mad and bellowing things that resisted reason. Maybe this was them in the bathroom stall at Sojourn. Casey relied on Zeke to be the rational one in these situations and here Zeke went again losing perspective.

Or maybe not.

Fuck. Zeke didn't fucking know that he was being rational anymore, or if he was, he suspected that it wasn't doing him much good. He was going to call up his father just so he could tell him that reason was not emotion's best servant as per his teaching. If anything, reason was emotion's bitch.

Reason couldn't tell him if he should take Casey up on his desperate invitation to attend therapy with him. He couldn't stop thinking about how shamed Casey had been by his outbursts the other night, about how he'd crept around Zeke yesterday, throwing on a mask of frantic good cheer whenever Zeke glanced in his direction. Pitful or not, it reminded Zeke that Casey really was trying all the time even if he often failed. And it was conceivable that if Zeke decided to join Casey in therapy he would take it as a lack of faith in him, not to mention an invasion of that tiny zone of privacy that he still possessed. Zeke was a private person himself, so he could understand. If it were his therapy, he probably wouldn't have made that invitation at all, no matter how desperate he was to make his lover happy.

Nor did reason did help Zeke when he was waiting out in front of Kane Hall, more than half-convinced that Casey was not going to show up for the lecture, that something would happen or had already happened because he had driven Casey to do something he wasn't ready to do. Especially not today, when Casey had barely slept the night before.

But Casey did arrive, white-lipped and wild-eyed. He marched up the steps to where Zeke was standing, casting about for somewhere to take shelter and when he found it he came right to it, right into Zeke's arms. Apparently the fact that Winona and the entire world would be getting an eyeful didn't matter a whit to Casey, and right then it didn't matter to Zeke either. Except Casey had been in no state to respond to any kisses; his lips had been passive, unresisting to Zeke's smothering attentions. After several seconds of this he had drawn away slightly, just resting his head against Zeke.

From a very oblique angle Zeke had managed to catch a glimpse of the look that Casey directed at Winona then, something feral and almost vicious. And Zeke had been turned on like he'd never been turned on before. He was aghast at himself, yes, but meanwhile his jeans seemed to have melted onto him, so tight he could barely breathe. It had taken the entire first half of the lecture for his body to settle down.

An outbreak of polite clapping made Zeke realize that the lecture was concluded; he was starting to have a serious problem with concentration. The speaker was shuffling his papers and nodding his head, acknowledging the applause.

Zeke hauled his bulging backpack up from the floor; the fucking thing was getting heavier and heavier as the end of term approached. "Let's go," he whispered, brushing Casey's shoulder. There would still be questions but Zeke didn't imagine Casey cared very much. It was a good opportunity to get out of here without getting swept up in a crowd.

Casey nodded and scrambled to his feet. He tripped slightly going up the stairs to the exit; Zeke steadied him, glaring at the one or two people who dared to look. He didn't check, but sensed that Winona was trailing along behind them.

By unspoken consensus they clumped in the lobby, just outside the main doors to the lecture theatre. "That was cool," Winona said, not very convincingly. "Casey, did you like it?"

Casey gaped at her. "Fine," he said slowly.

She was left with a conversational dead end. Gamely, she attempted to wade back in with, "Let's go grab a coffee at The Study?"

"I don't know," Zeke said, wanting some indication of Casey's preference. Meanwhile, it appeared that Casey was waiting for Zeke to answer. There was a distinct twinge of annoyance on Winona's face. Zeke supposed he couldn't blame her for wanting to someday have one of her proposals answered with a straight "yes" or "no."

She turned to Casey right away, aware that it was he who had to be convinced. "I'd like to buy you a coffee or pop or juice or something — just to say thank you."

"Th-thank you?"

"For your advice on studying, remember?"

It took a hellishly long time for Casey to answer. "Oh...right," he said. He put both hands in his pockets, hunching his shoulders, and appealed to Zeke without words.

Winona exclaimed, "Awesome, let's go!" She took off in the direction of the nearest exit before anyone could attempt a different interpretation of the conversation.

Zeke touched Casey's arm. "You don't have to."

"I know."

"Why don't we say just thirty minutes and then we leave?"

With a sickly look, Casey haggled, "Fifteen."

Zeke went with the spirit of the moment. "Twenty-five."

He was quite willing to be bargained down to twenty, but Casey said, "D-Done."

Their destination was a short walk away. Contrary to all expectations, the weather had been pleasant this week and tonight was no exception. The air was mild, the moon was actually out...There were students strolling here and there, some of them holding hands. Zeke took Casey's hand and dared to envision some point in the near future when this could be a daily occurrence, the two of them on campus together.

His spirits sank all the way to his knees when they arrived at "The Study." It was packed, which perhaps was always the state of things at this time of day — Zeke wouldn't know. They wound up stationed in front of the coffee bar holding their beverages for a while, monitoring a table of four students who seemed to be lingering with empty cups sitting in front of them. Zeke was fairly certain that one of them had looked him right in the eye knowing what he was about, and then made a point of disregarding him.

Standing where they were, there was no way to not get jostled. Each time, it was both painful and wonderful to see Casey begin to shrink towards Zeke then pull back slightly, attempting to maintain a distance that would be comfortable for the sake of peer decorum. It just wasn't cool to stand there clinging to your boyfriend but even so Casey had a hand on Zeke's arm at least half of the time, chattering under his breath. It would occasionally rise in volume to the point that Zeke could hear it: "...okayokayokay... okayokayokay..." Winona must have heard it too; she would glance over at Casey, cast an uneasy look at Zeke and then right on cue, the chanting would subside so that one could wonder if they'd heard it at all.

By the time they finally sat down Zeke was convinced that he'd like nothing better than to just leave, and he wished that Casey had bargained a little harder. The tables were not only full, but crowded close to each other so that everyone was continually bumping chairs; Casey pulled his so close to the table that his face was almost in his chamomile tea.

"Geez!" Winona said, looking quite relieved herself. "I thought those people would never leave."

"Yeah," Zeke agreed.

"It's funny how you can be so pissed off at people for sitting in the seat you want, eh? Like you think it's yours and how dare they not move immediately."

"I think they were doing it on purpose," Zeke said. Across from him, Casey was a visible, vibrating mess of nerves.

Under the table, Zeke checked his watch. Inconceivably, only nine minutes had passed since they walked into this place.

"So what did you think of the lecture, Zeke?" asked Winona. She was blatantly not noticing Casey's situation, which Zeke appreciated.

"It was okay," Zeke said, unwilling to admit that he'd scarcely paid attention. "It wasn't exactly what I thought it would be though."

"What did you think it would be?"

"More about media, less about politics. And that guy's style...yawn..." Breaking off, he checked to see if Casey was still — how did Sasha put it? — in a state. And yes, Casey's knees were moving up and down, his hands fidgeting, his whole body making a jittering motion that was a cross between a bounce and a sway.

Winona agreed, "Yeah, it was a bit slow...Casey, what did you think?"

Casey started. "Huh?

"What did you think of the lecture?"

"Oh...interesting."

Neither Winona nor Casey seemed to recall that they'd had this exchange once already, and it was excruciating to listen to. Zeke had to resist the urge to put his hands over his ears.

"Do you miss school?" Winona asked Casey.

Casey stared and didn't speak.

"I mean..." she faltered. "I was just wondering if it felt good being back on campus."

Casey's demeanour was now outright hostile; he looked like he could have torn her throat out if she gave him a reason.

Winona rattled on, "I was out of school for quite a few years, and you know, I really hated it before but right now I'm absolutely loving it. It's totally different to do something because you want to instead of because you have to."

To that, Casey rasped an answer: "I agree."

"Are you going to come back in January?"

"I don't know."

Winona was starting to look flattened. "Zeke — um, Zeke said you were taking physics. I totally suck at science, myself. I signed up for this course this term because it sounded really cool, it's about the stars and planets...but I didn't really notice that it was a physics course so here I am trying to figure out these weird things like doppelgangers and red shifts."

"I'm switching to film."

Zeke saw Winona's lips thinning, along with her patience. Zeke put his hand on Casey's knee, needing to still the bouncing, and hoping that Casey might just read something into it. Winona was desperately trying to make conversation, to include him and perhaps put him a bit more at ease, and he kept shutting her down. The application of minimal social skills could have made a painful situation less painful but Casey was determined to suffer, and to make them all suffer with him.

"Your hair's really cool," Winona said, speaking slowly and looking directly at Casey, defying him to take his antisocial behaviour to a whole new level.

Casey took her dare and one-upped it. Ignoring the compliment, he looked pointedly at the clock on the wall. Twelve minutes gone.

"Are you doing turkey day, Winona?" Zeke intervened, and couldn't quite prevent himself from giving Casey a bit of a glare.

"I was going to drive up to Vancouver for the weekend, do Thanksgiving with my mother and Aaron, but it hasn't been confirmed yet."

Winona was getting her sad face on again. It was on the tip of Zeke's tongue to invite her to come along to Charly's with them even though it wasn't really his place to ask, but Casey's glance stopped him. It said, If you want to know grief such as you've never known before, you'll invite her to join us.

"Maybe we could do something together this weekend?" Winona said, with an eagerness that Zeke found slightly poignant.

He said, as always, "Maybe."

"We don't have to go out. We could get together and study..." Winona flicked an anxious look at Casey. "Or just hang out at your place...?"

"I want to go home," Casey announced.

So did Zeke, but they still had a number of minutes left and he wasn't sure it would be healthful to renege on their contract now. He said, "Case," not really expecting it to be persuasive.

"Zeke, I want to go..."

"You said twenty-five minutes," Zeke said in a low voice. Winona was averting her eyes, taking great interest at some handmade poster stuck to a wall not quite within reading distance.

"I know but I can't."

"Just ten minutes more."

Casey shook his head. He must have been in real trouble to let Winona see this — even if she was doing her best to pretend she wasn't in the room right now. Zeke didn't know if he should stand firm or give in. He didn't know which way would help Casey, or if it even mattered what he thought. He did know that if Sasha were here, he would have convinced Casey to stay.

"Ten minutes, Case. You'll feel better about it in the end."

"I don't care!"

A few heads turned in their direction.

"Yes, you do," Zeke hissed.

Casey hunched up and gave his audience a quality demonstration of paranoia in contemporary America, much superior to anything they could have heard earlier in Kane Hall. "They're looking at me," he whispered.

Zeke saw that he had lost control of the situation; it wouldn't be long before the outcome would be completely out of his hands. Casey would take flight and he would have to chase after him in front of all these people, in front of Winona. It would be humiliating for Casey and Zeke wanted to protect him from that, to calm him down sufficiently that he could leave with dignity intact.

"They're looking at me, Zeke." Casey's voice was going loud.

Zeke jerked his head up and followed the direction of Casey's gaze. People were indeed looking, but only because they had heard Casey accusing them. "They're not," Zeke said.

"They are." Casey was now hyperventilating. "They are...they are looking...they...."

This was now a crisis. It had been a crisis for quite a while now, and Zeke was so fucked up that he was just letting it happen. He saw Winona open her mouth to say something and close it like she was afraid of how it would be received and he knew what she wanted to say: Let's go, for fuck sake, Zeke.

Really good idea, that. He should have thought of it first. He was about to say the words; his mouth was just lagging behind his brain a little.

Winona said quietly, "Zeke."

"Yes," he agreed. "It's time to go."

And Casey was up and weaving his way through the obstacle course towards the door. Zeke knew he should follow immediately, but he didn't. He stayed in his chair and contemplated his own paralysis. It wasn't that he couldn't get up, no...because he never had any problems with taking action when required. It had to be that he didn't want to, that he was just a little bit fed up.

"Zeke," Winona urged, hauling her purse up over her shoulder.

"Sorry about this," he told her, pushing his chair back.

Winona wore an expression that was carefully neutral. "It's okay."

"No, it's not okay, Winona, it's not fucking okay when he'd rather make himself sick than — "

Shame filled him even before he could finish that sentence. And then fear, as the reality seized him that Casey was nowhere in his sight and he hadn't taken a single step yet to remedy that.

"Your backpack — " Winona said, grabbing and lifting it as Zeke was driven to his feet.

"Right...thanks."

"Should I come with — ?"

He shook his head at her. "No...gotta go..." He'd let Casey get ahead of him by entire seconds. Urgency was pulsing in him, making him want to run but the place was too congested. In his hurry, he stumbled over a chair leg and nearly removed some girl's head with his backpack. "Sorry...shit, I'm sorry..." He didn't wait to find out if she forgave him, dodging out the door and into the basement hallway.

He spun in a circle, looking in either direction, hoping but not really expecting to see Casey who was probably heading for the bus stop at high speed. Either direction led to stairs to the ground floor; Zeke took one.

The main floor of the student union building yawned in front of him. There were not so many students around in this part of the building that he couldn't obtain a clear view of the exit and beyond — and still he couldn't see Casey. His thought processes were steeped in terror. Casey could be hurt or in trouble, he could be running somewhere in a panic with no idea of where he was going and this time it really was absofuckinglutely without question Zeke's fault because he was the world's greatest prick and no wonder Casey thought he'd leave him.

There. Casey was just on the other side of the glass that formed the entire front wall of the ground floor. He was walking rapidly down the sidewalk, his back to Zeke. Zeke saw him fail to sidestep a person in his path, crashing into them head on; he pushed around the person, apparently without a word or even a look of acknowledgment. Zeke saw the student turn and shout something after Casey.

Zeke charged at the door and through it, keeping his eyes pinned on the back of Casey, gluing them to that patch of denim with the hood of his sweatshirt protruding at the top, bunching around his neck —

"Casey! Case!"

Casey didn't ever turn but Zeke caught up to him easily, grabbing his arm. Casey spun about with a fist raised and hit Zeke in the ribs, not making a sound. It hurt as much as a blow to the ribs usually did, stunning Zeke long enough for Casey to land another punch. He recovered and got hold of Casey's arm as it rose to strike again.

"Hey, it's me — owf! Casey!"

Just on the cusp of a fourth blow, there was a confused blink. Casey went mostly limp, his chest still heaving, struggling for air. Zeke released his arm and he just let it fall, staring at Zeke. Zeke saw his mouth open, preparing to utter an apology, then close, openly despairing of any verbal expression of remorse that could be adequate.

"It's me," Zeke said unnecessarily.

"Are — are you h-huh — "

"No, I'm...it's okay." He'd been hurt worse playing football but he suspected that would be of no comfort to Casey. He thought of a number of things he could say and just settled on, "Let's go home."

In silence they walked to the bus stop; in silence they waited for the bus and in silence they rode the bus home. Casey sat next to the window, slumped into it and staring through it. He wasn't zoned; he knew when they were at their stop, rising to his feet without being prompted. Zeke couldn't entirely staunch a little bitterness — now, after Casey had sabotaged himself with Winona as a witness, he could ride the bus and walk home without any fuss.

When they got in their door Casey just stopped walking, as if someone had cut his switch. He stood there waiting for chastisement while Zeke divested himself of jacket, shoes and backpack.

"I thought it would be okay," Zeke said slowly, trying to think past a haze of weariness. "You did three whole hours in that restaurant." He rubbed his temples, which were bulging out the side of his head, and realized that in a vague way that he was vaguely apologizing.

Casey looked at him but didn't answer. They both knew that the dinner had been different because that night Casey had needed to be as well as he could be. This night, he had needed to be unwell — although it would serve nothing to say it out loud, other than to feed Casey's hunger for punishment. And Zeke had already said it, hadn't he? He'd criticized Casey to Winona and he would never have thought he'd do that, not ever.

Zeke admitted, "I don't...know what I'm doing."

He looked to Casey for acknowledgment and got none.

"Do you hear me, Casey? I don't know what to do. I want to...I know I want you to feel good one of these days, and I don't want to be the bad guy. I know that much."

"You're not the bad guy," Casey whispered.

"Case. I need...I want to come with you to your therapy appointment on Monday."

It was very quiet there in the hallway. Zeke had expected tears, hysteria, pleading...something.

"I know it makes you nervous, I know you don't want to talk about certain things and we won't. But I need to have some idea of what's going on with you."

Casey lifted his head. Zeke got ready to hear whatever desperate offer he was going to make to entice Zeke to withdraw his threat, but Casey said nothing. He merely nodded, accepting.

The ache was back in Zeke's throat, and he swallowed hard, forcing it down. He said, "This is a good thing, Case. Thank you."

Still there was not much reaction.

"Don't be afraid," Zeke told him, intending for him to know that he would not sell him out. They would go in as allies.

Casey laughed. It began short and bitter, then it strained, stretched out thin and snapped, becoming a harsh, gulping noise. Zeke watched and listened in horrified fascination at first, until he realized that it wasn't stopping and now at last he had no problem taking action. He pulled Casey into his arms with the distinct feeling that he didn't deserve to be doing this — but thinking that way wouldn't redeem him either. He would just have to fix it, he would go with Casey to the shrink and they would work on all their crap.

He channelled Sasha and made his own noises, shushing Casey and rubbing his back until he quieted. Then he tugged on Casey's sleeve, suggesting that he should remove his jacket, and Casey complied silently, letting Zeke help him with the other sleeve as well. Then Zeke provided stability while Casey pulled his feet from his running shoes, not bothering to bend over and untie them.

Without a word, Zeke guided Casey into the bedroom, flicking on the light switch as they passed it. He sat, drawing Casey down next to him. They didn't speak for a long time as Zeke fell into a light rocking motion, just swaying them side to side a little. Regardless of what it did for Casey, Zeke found it quite soothing.

Finally, Casey said, "Zeke?"

"Hmm."

"I — didn't like taking the bus."

Zeke knew there was more, and waited for it.

"I didn't want to do it. It — I was stupid."

Zeke turned to Casey and tipped his face up with both his hands. He brushed at the lines of tension around his eyes, finding and erasing some residual moisture. "You're never stupid."

"I hated the lecture. I hated the coffee shop. I don't know if I — if I can go back — "

It seemed natural that his mouth should be in contact with Casey's then, that it was the only thing adequate to understanding. He could taste everything that Casey was trying to say, he didn't have to hear it. It seemed like they'd barely touched each other the last few days, certainly not touched each other enough anyway. Zeke had never really bothered to keep track of it; he just knew that he was always touching Casey and the sex happened when it needed to. It never had to be planned or scheduled despite their having to dance around Sasha's presence — yet suddenly it seemed that three long, lonely days had passed and Zeke wasn't sure how that had happened but he felt like he was kissing Casey for the first time in three years.

Zeke whispered, "It's okay...it's gonna be okay..." He dipped in again, felt Casey's mouth part beneath his and Casey's lips trembling and suddenly he was plunging in, desperate to drown. He felt Casey's hand slide up around his neck and pull him in deeper, pulling him down. Sentience went under, submerged in a hot, suckling cavity. Zeke's world was reduced to perception; he knew moistness and heat, a meandering trail of fire over his jaw, a tingle in the hollow of his throat. An ache and friction in his groin that gradually overtook everything else.

Some limited consciousness returned to him and he realized that he was holding Casey so hard that they were crushed together and he was dry humping Casey into the mattress. Casey was thrusting up just as hard and they were bruising each other thoroughly without getting much closer to the mark.

"This is...inefficient," Zeke murmured. "Just...let me..."

He peeled himself off Casey and quickly unsnapped and unzippered with one hand, shoving aside the annoyances of a couple layers of clothing, exposing them both while he propped himself up with the other. And he was at last working his raging cock against Casey's. He supported himself on his elbows, planting his hands flat on either side of Casey's head, holding him there. He was aware of Casey's heels against the back of his bare thighs, pressing him closer. All other sensation lost to the pulsing heat at his groin. Feeling like a furtive teenager he reattached his mouth to Casey's and they groped and thrust and rubbed towards a sticky conclusion.

He found himself staring down at Casey's closed eyes as their chests knocked together, trying capture some oxygen. Usually if he was on top of Casey he was quick to move aside and take steps for their comfort, but not this time. He remained just where he was, staring into Casey's face. When Casey's eyes opened, they immediately tried to evade him, shifting this way and that; Casey even tried turning his head to the side but Zeke was relentless, nudging his chin back, following him around until he tired and surrendered, meeting Zeke's eyes with his own wide-open.

"Let me up," Casey whispered. Zeke could see that he was completely vulnerable, completely without resources — rather how he felt himself at the moment.

"In a sec."

Never breaking eye-contact, he lowered his mouth slowly, catching a bottom lip, sucking it for a moment before lifting up. He rested his weight to one side, keeping most of his body over Casey's and with his opposite hand he twined his fingers with the hair over Casey's forehead. He traced a shadow beneath Casey's eye that spoke of his exhaustion.

"Please...let me up," Casey said, beginning to squirm.

Zeke didn't want to, but he did. Casey slid away from him and off the bed. Zeke protested, "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to sleep." Casey's voice trembled, steadied. "Just want to clean up."

That was reasonable, Zeke supposed, but he questioned, "What time is it?"

"I don't know. It's dark anyway." Zeke watched as Casey finished what he had started, kicking off his pants and underwear, tugging his shirt and sweatshirt off. Casey hunted up some fresh clothing and left the room.

While he was gone, Zeke used a tissue to clean himself and zipped up; he would take a shower later. It was still early for him, and he needed to put in some quality time on his papers before he could crash.

Laying back on a pillow with his hands behind his head, he thought about Casey and sex. He thought about everything he knew about Roy and how Casey would let Zeke do the most intimate, invasive things to his body yet still could barely meet his eyes. He thought about all the things that Casey kept to himself, and how Casey would do anything to prevent those things from being discussed — with Dr. Yves or with anyone else — even though they needed to be discussed in the worst way. There had to be some way to make those conversations happen without violating Casey's trust.

Casey returned, dressed for bed but wearing his hooded sweatshirt as before. He got on the bed, under the covers, turning onto his side towards Zeke. He closed his eyes with a small sigh.

"Cold?" Zeke asked.

Casey gave a tiny nod.

Zeke said, "I still have work to do — but I'll take it into the living room."

"Doesn't matter," Casey mumbled. "I won't hear you if you want to use the computer."

Zeke liked the notion of staying where Casey would be constantly under his surveillance, but he didn't want to interfere with Casey's sleep; there would have to be light, and pages rustling and a keyboard clacking. "You sure?"

"Yeah...like the background noise...it's relaxing."

"Okay."

Casey was settling into a comfortable position close to Zeke, his breathing already slowing. "Stay like this until I fall asleep?" he asked.

Which would be all of a minute. "You bet," Zeke returned easily.

Eyes closed, Casey groped for Zeke's hand and held it against his chest. "I didn't want to hit you," Casey whispered. "I didn't know it was you."

"I know," Zeke said, although he wasn't entirely convinced that it was true.

After Casey was out, he worked long into the night by the light of the desk lamp over the computer.

 

 _November whatthefuckidon'tknow. Monday, but let's just call it the day that I meet my doom. At one o'clock. Few people are lucky enough to know the precise time of their death. Just me and criminals on death row._

 _Gee, someone reading this would think that I have a sense of humour about this. All I can do is try not to think about it and treasure the few hours that I have left._

 _Well, the W-Monster called again on Saturday. Zeke didn't tell me what she wanted but I heard him say he "didn't think it was a good idea", whatever "it" was. She must be thinking now that she looks extra fucking attractive in comparison to me, being mostly sane and all. And she probably thinks I made a scene in that coffee shop just so Zeke would feel bad about spending any time with her but I don't care. It was horrible, that whole night was horrible and I don't know how I can ever go back there. I don't know how I can even GET there because I can't take the bus again. I don't care what Yves would think of it, I KNOW that I was riding the bus with a bunch of aliens and they just decided to spare me for some reason. So I'll never get back to school, but it's hard to care about that at all right now._

 _Thinking about something else now._

 _So Jerry came over again last night and we all watched hockey. It seems like this is going to be a regular weekly thing and I guess I don't mind. I think he loves Sasha. I don't think Sasha loves him, though. Sasha likes him really a lot and cares for him as a friend, but when he falls in love it's always with these slightly older, old-fashioned kind of guys. Poor Jerry. He was very nice to me at the restaurant that night. Anyway, I stayed there in the living room with them, I didn't go to my room and read like I wanted to, mainly because Zeke and Sasha have both been fretting and worried and watching me constantly all weekend. Sasha knows that Zeke is coming with me today and I guess he can tell that it bothers me. Go figure. And Zeke is just waiting for me to freak out and beg him not to come but I'm not going to do that. I caught myself at least three times this weekend about to beg with him and I had to make myself go hide for a while. I don't have the right to ask him that after the way I've been._

 _I know what he wants to talk about with Yves. He says we'll solve the L.A. problem and talk about how much he should push me on things but it's W-Monster he really wants to talk about. He wants to be told that his hanging out with her will teach me not to be clingy and insecure. He wants to know how to cure Borderline Boy. I'm afraid that even though I asked her not to, Yves is going to make her the main topic and then we'll be into the whole thing about my attitude to her and that will lead us to all sorts of places I can't go._

 _Like sex. Still after everything he thinks that what we do is sick. He thinks that between the two of them they'll trick me into telling them things, like why I am "the way I am." He thinks wrong, because there's nothing to talk about. He just thinks that guys shouldn't like being fucked the way that I do. He's still so fucking straight —_

The inevitable knock came. Casey slammed his book shut.

"Kitten?" Not waiting for any welcome, Sasha opened the door. "Casey? I made waffles."

Casey had already detected the sweet-sharp fragrance of sugar caramelizing — which he loved, but he sincerely believed that he'd throw up if he ate anything. "Smells good."

"Well, come out and have some, then."

"Sasha — " he started, and immediately gave up. He knew the face that Sasha was wearing all too well. This was a fight that he was going to lose. "Okay."

He went out to their dining table, where Zeke was already seated, having decided to skip school altogether today. And it looked like Jerry had slept over again; he greeted Casey with a smile and a wave; Casey made himself smile back, dropping into the chair to Zeke's right. Zeke's hand groped in his direction, giving his knee an encouraging squeeze.

Trapped, his brain chattered. Trappedtrappedtrappedtrapped.

"How did you sleep, Casey?" Jerry asked.

"Okay," he answered.

"That's good," Jerry said, and winked.

They were not just making conversation. On Thursday night after the coffee shop disaster Casey had slept very well, but Friday night had started out badly and he finally resorted to Xanax. He slept hard for sixteen hours, so hard that Zeke had trouble waking him. Not surprisingly then, Saturday night was a miserable failure. After lying in bed for several agonizing hours, he'd decided that he would just stay up all night and all day Sunday and get back on track that way, except he had screwed up the plan by falling asleep for four hours yesterday afternoon. Zeke had left Casey in Sasha and Jerry's charge while he slaved on his papers in the bedroom and the three of them watched Giant, which Casey had found boring both of the previous two times that he had seen it. It was totally a Sasha thing, that movie — three deities of the gay pantheon incarnated on screen simultaneously in the forms of Rock Hudson, Elizabeth Taylor and James Dean. Casey had fallen asleep shortly after Jimmy Dean struck oil, and apparently Sasha couldn't find the will or the heart to wake him. They were all three of them taken to task in harsh terms by Zeke when they were discovered, but Casey had gotten to sleep without too much difficulty last night despite the unsanctioned nap.

"Breakfast is served!" Sasha declared, setting a plate in front of Casey. There was one large, perfectly golden waffle topped with mixed fruit and yogurt, with a drizzle of maple syrup.

"Hey," Zeke said. "What about the rest of us?"

"Sorry," Sasha replied, sounding not at all remorseful. "I can only make one at a time after all, and my kitten needs a head start on the rest of us."

Sasha returned to his iron to pour Waffle Number Two while Casey approached his breakfast with serious deliberation. This was one of those times when getting sick would not be permitted and he took his time cutting and chewing, letting each bite settle before he ventured on to a new one. Meanwhile, each new waffle took about fifteen minutes to cook. Jerry was served next, then Zeke, and finally Sasha sat down to the table with his own breakfast.

"You see?" he said, directing everyone's attention to Casey's half-full plate and Zeke's empty one with a head shake.

"What?" Zeke protested. "I like breakfast. We've established this."

"And lunch, and dinner..."

"Is that a problem?"

"Around me? Absolutely not." Sasha took up his knife and fork and tucked in, cutting his waffle into regular, four-sided shapes. "By the way, how do you feel about cake?"

"Cake?" Zeke puzzled out loud.

Oh, shit...shitshitshit. Casey tried to catch Sasha's eye without success.

"Birthday cake." Zeke looked blank, and having shot his mouth off, Sasha finally found it expedient to look at Casey. "You mean you didn't ask him yet?"

"What are you two plotting?" Zeke demanded. "You do know that I'm not into birthday crap?"

Under the table where no one could see, Casey put a hand over his stomach — as if that would do any good but he was not going magnify his latest failure by throwing up his breakfast, he was not. "We just...thought we'd have a few people over," he said to Zeke, hearing his voice from a great distance. It was completely paradoxical that he was having this discussion right now when he could barely conceive of a time after his therapy appointment at one. "I was supposed to ask you — sorry, Sasha."

Zeke's expression of suspicion might have been funny on some other day. "So you're asking me now...How many people are we talking about?"

"How many people do we know?" Sasha retorted. "A few."

"I already invited Stokes," Casey added. "And she's asking Stan."

Zeke assumed a martyred air; he sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes. "All right, I guess I could show up for it."

"We appreciate your willingness to suffer," Sasha said. "So what kind of cake, then? Do you like chocolate?"

"Um," Casey said. "I mighta...kinda...told Stokely she could bring the cake."

Zeke groaned and Casey felt his head sink below his shoulder blades. There seemed to be no limit to his ability to screw up.

"You know...I'm sure it will be fine," Sasha decided aloud, giving Casey a quick glance of reassurance. "Stokely knows how to use regular ingredients when she wants to. Which is more than I can say for you, Zeke." He stabbed a strawberry and skewered it to an equilateral square of waffle, which he then swirled in the pool of syrup on his plate. To Jerry he said, "So, babe, what's on our agenda for today?"

"Actually," Jerry said. "I have a dinner planned...with real ingredients too."

"Dinner?" Sasha said around a mouthful of waffle. He bounced in his chair a bit, chewing and swallowing. "What's the menu?"

"It's a surprise."

"Mmm...sounds intriguing."

"And I thought since it's not actually raining today we might take a drive to Seward Park and go for a little hike."

"Ahh..."

Sasha glanced at Casey, asking if he should be at home when they returned from the therapy, if he might be needed. Casey sent him a head shake, hoping he would read its meaning. I'm not expecting to survive it, see, so there won't be much you can do. But thank you for the offer.

"...sounds lovely," Sasha finished, and smiled at Jerry.

Sasha made short work of the rest of his waffle, and Casey managed to get all of his down as well. Zeke offered to do the dishes; without consultation, Casey helped him. They stood side by side at the kitchen sink while Sasha puttered about and finally declared himself ready to go. Never one to place a high priority on subtlety, he informed them, "Just so you know, I will be home later." He kissed Casey's cheek and patted Zeke's arm. "You boys be good now."

With his departure, the apartment was suddenly very quiet. Casey saw Zeke checking the clock on the microwave. There was more than an hour yet before they would be leaving for the appointment.

"I'm going to play a game for a while," Zeke said. "You wanna join me?"

Casey shook his head. "There's something I have to do."

"Oh. Okay."

He went to the bedroom and even though he would have much rather just written some stuff in his journal, he got out his anxiety workbook, flipping to the back where there were several blank mood log templates. He had agreed to try doing one of these, and as much as it was the last thing he needed, he didn't want Dr. Yves to check up on him and find that he hadn't done his homework.

Step One: Describe upsetting event.

 _Zeke is coming to therapy with me today._

His stomach burned out of control, turning breakfast to ash. He tried to ignore it and went on to Step Two...List feelings about event and rate their intensity. A handy list of adjectives was provided and he chose a few.

 _Afraid._

Ten out of ten.

 _Apprensive._

That would be a ten.

 _Panicky._

Tententen.

There were plenty more words that applied, but he figured he should stop there. So next...List all thoughts about event in the minimal space provided...okay, but it was tough to choose from the thousands of ideas swarming his brain. Some of them just shouldn't be put down on paper but there were still enough to fill page after page.

 _Why is he doing this?_

 _They want to trap me, why do they have to do that?_

 _I'm going to die._

 _I hope I die._

Shaking, he stared down at the last thing he had written. He knew that it wasn't true. He was just so very tired of striving; here he was always flailing and struggling upstream and somehow it had gotten him to this moment that he didn't want and couldn't stop from happening, it got him more trapped than ever.

His head felt heavy and he let it fall, his right cheek coming to rest flat on the book. He was not going to finish this exercise. She could give him a failing grade if she wanted, he didn't care. There didn't seem to be much point to it. From his current vantage he stared at the incomplete lines and squiggles that were, at that angle, just blobs on a white surface. He watched them blur and detach and the next thing he knew Zeke had come to the door and said it was time to go.

They took the car for once since Sasha didn't need it, reducing the trip to Dr. Yves' building from its usual twenty minutes to ten. Zeke parked on the street in front and sprang out with his usual energy, locking the door, going around to the other side to put money in the metre. Eventually, he noticed that Casey was still in the car. He came to Casey's window and knocked on it. Casey sprouted a sudden fantasy of popping the lock and tearing off in the Mustang, heading for the open road like Peter Fonda — except he didn't have the keys and Zeke had his hand on the door now so too late.

The door opened. "You ready?" Zeke asked him.

Casey thought it best if he didn't answer that. He swung sideways and put his feet out on the ground. Each one felt like it was encased in granite and he just stayed that way for the moment, searching for the will to hoist himself upright.

From way up above, Zeke spoke. "Case..." He seemed to be groping for something to say. "I'm sorry this is so hard," was what he settled on.

"Yeah."

"Just think about when it's over...we'll go home, maybe we'll have the apartment to ourselves for a few hours." Casey worked up a smile for Zeke, although he couldn't vouch for how that smile came off. He noticed that Zeke didn't smile back. Zeke just held out his hand and invited, "C'mon."

The moment they got inside it started to go wrong. For a start, Zeke took Casey's chair, the one that he always sat in while in the waiting room so he was forced to take the one next to it. And then he noticed the copy of National Geographic that was strewn on the table in front of them and that was wrong too, because the receptionist always kept the magazines in two neat piles and Casey had yet to see them in any sort of disorder. Everything was chaos today.

"Hello, Casey."

That was like normal at least. Dr. Yves was standing just inside the waiting room, saying his name just as she always did — until her eyes shifted to the person beside him who had gotten to his feet at the same time as Casey had.

"Zeke," she welcomed him.

Of course, she would remember Zeke from the first time he brought Casey here — abandoned Casey, actually, and he'd much rather have stayed abandoned right now, thank you very much.

"Let's go into my office, shall we?" Dr. Yves said.

Casey made sure he got his usual chair this time, scurrying ahead of Zeke. Zeke took another chair that was nearby, just within hand-grasping distance.

"I believe Casey told you that I wanted to have an opportunity to talk to you, Zeke," Dr. Yves said as she sat down and rested her notepad on the arm of her chair, holding it in place with her forearm.

"Yeah, Casey told me," Zeke said briefly. He was nervous too, Casey realized. I don't know what I'm doing, Zeke had said. Zeke had even admitted to wanting help, a sign of just how frustrated he must be feeling — but if they survived this, Zeke might feel better. That was important. It was all that Casey had going for him at the moment.

Dr. Yves' sharp gaze was on Casey, watching him, perhaps wondering why he was not hyperventilating yet. "Casey, how do you feel right now?" she asked.

"Like I'd rather be anywhere but here," he said.

"I appreciate that this isn't easy for you." Casey shrugged. He didn't have it in him to say anything gracious right now and Dr. Yves let him be, turning to Zeke instead. "It's always a bit awkward bringing someone new into a therapy situation but I hope you'll feel comfortable enough to just talk openly, Zeke. I am glad you could be here."

"I'll do whatever it takes," Zeke replied.

"For what?"

"To make Casey happy — or happier, anyway."

With renewed dread, Casey recognized Zeke's tone and posture; he was in High Battle Mode, his brain running at five hundred percent capacity. This was Zeke at his most dangerous, and his most independent. He would follow his own judgment at times like this; he always did because he always had and that was what worked for him.

Dr. Yves smiled — she had already smiled at least twice and Casey wondered if there really was a rule in the counselling handbook that said Show No Emotion To The Patient because she seemed perfectly capable of it otherwise. "Because no one can ever be entirely happy, right?" she suggested.

"Yes," Zeke agreed. "I remember reading something about Freud saying...He said something like the goal of therapy was to take a person from neurotic misery and restore him to a state of everyday human unhappiness."

"It's not often we get to quote Freud in here," Dr. Yves observed. "He did say some remarkably astute things." Casey could see that she was making certain mental adjustments, revising her assumptions about Zeke. Hmm, so when the neurotic client said that his boyfriend was really smart, he wasn't just indulging in rampant hero worship.

"Well, we wouldn't be sitting here now if it weren't for him, would we?"

"Perhaps not — but perhaps we would too. I think that sometimes certain concepts are waiting to happen because of a given moment in history and it's all in being there at the right time...so if Freud hadn't happened, someone else would have."

"That's a good point," Zeke allowed, with his usual confidence.

"Where did you have occasion to read Freud?" Dr. Yves asked him.

"Oh, I haven't really...oh, yeah, it was quoted in my Intro to Psych textbook," Zeke returned, with an offhand smile for Casey.

Casey did not want to be smiled at. Wasn't it nice, Zeke and his shrink had bonded. If they were going to do that, then maybe they could just take the whole hour and chat about the history of psychology. Zeke would like that, and then maybe he'd go home intellectually fulfilled and not ever feel the need to come back.

"My apologies, Casey," Dr. Yves said then. "I got on a bit of a tangent. Do you feel calm now?"

"Calm-er," he mimicked Zeke.

"That's good. Can you tell me what it is about Zeke being here that scares you so much?"

"No."

"No because you don't know or no because you don't want to tell me?"

A little from Column A and a little from Column B...

Unperturbed by Casey's failure to answer, Dr. Yves continued, "Well. Since you are here, Zeke, I thought maybe I'd ask you if there's something you want to tell me or ask me? Obviously it has to be something that you're comfortable saying in front of Casey."

Zeke replied readily, "Okay...There is something."

Casey turned his attention to the carpet. It was a lovely industrial blue-grey. The pattern of the threads — the pile, that was the word, wasn't it — was fascinating. So was the rubber on his shoes with its millions of tiny stress cracks. He ran the toe of his shoe over the pile, watching a line form in a deeper shade of blue.

All the while, Zeke was speaking. "I don't know if Casey told you about this, but the weekend before last my father was in town. We went for supper with him and his fiancée."

"Casey mentioned that to me, didn't you, Casey?"

"Yes," Casey said, giving them no more than that. He was busy with the carpet anyway.

"For a start," Zeke continued, "You should know that my father and I haven't really spoken for about three years, and I never expected to hear from him."

"How did you feel when he called?"

Casey just had to see the expression on Zeke's face at this. He probably hadn't been expecting this; the way Zeke saw it, Casey's feelings were the subject at hand. It was a little bit funny. Zeke in a room with a shrink was funny, actually.

"I don't know how that's relevant," Zeke replied.

"Well, Zeke, I'm trying to determine how important your relationship with your father is to you, and it is relevant to this discussion."

"All right, I'll tell you. I haven't had much of a relationship with my father and I've been fine without one. Like I said, I never expected him to call."

"Except he did call."

"You'll think I'm in denial or something, but I'm not. I am angry and I let him know that. I also let him know that he isn't all that important to me."

Casey couldn't help but squirm a little bit, shifting to the other side of his chair. Any moment now she was going to say but Casey seems to feel your father is very important to you and Zeke would turn to him with an expression of disappointment at the violation of his privacy.

"Do you have something to say, Casey?" Dr. Yves prompted, seeing him fidget.

"No."

"I know that Casey thinks this whole father thing matters more to me than I say it does," Zeke supplied casually. Casey stared at Zeke, completely surprised since the last time they had this discussion Zeke had totally shot him down at the mere suggestion that fathers usually cared about their sons — or vice versa.

"Is that true, Casey?"

Casey couldn't answer.

"It's okay, Case," Zeke said, reaching over to squeeze his hand briefly. "I know I kind of bit your head off when you tried to talk about it with me."

"Zeke, can I ask you something?" Dr. Yves intervened. "Why did you agree to see your father?"

Zeke was quiet, thinking about that. Casey felt himself hunching into his chair and forced his spine to straighten a bit.

"What if the answer has to do with Casey?" Zeke asked. "Should I say it?"

"If you feel comfortable doing that, yes. Whatever you tell me here does have to be something you could say to Casey. It has to be something you're prepared to have an honest dialogue about."

"All right," Zeke said slowly. "The reason I went to dinner was — okay, yes, at first I thought I'd just like to know what the guy had to say. But it started to be this big, stressful thing for us and I realized that...I think Casey really wanted it to happen. It was important to him."

Casey found himself staring at Zeke yet again. He wanted to point and yell What about him, huh? He gets to do all the mind reading he wants, it isn't fair...

"Why do you think that is?" asked Dr. Yves.

"This has to do with Roy." Zeke eyed Casey in apology. "You know who Roy is?"

Casey pulled his sneakered feet up on his chair and crossed his legs, clenching his hands in his lap. Dr. Yves observed his efforts to present a smaller target without a word, her eyes briefly commenting on his shoes that were perhaps soiling her chair. She'd never said anything to him about that but he was working on a theory that she was an obsessive-compulsive clean freak. Thus far her observed behaviour had not been contrary to the thesis.

"Yes," she said only.

"Roy always kept Casey a secret, right, and it was about wanting to please his father. He made Casey feel like it was his fault that his father disapproved of him, and I figured that if I backed out on the dinner because it was too much bother, Casey would think that was his fault too."

All this was said in a rush, like Zeke was still nervous. Fuck, but he was good. Casey knew that he was being absolutely calculating about what he said right now, meting out useful information for the shrink while monitoring everyone to gauge the effectiveness of his performance. It was vintage Zeke.

"But you know that wouldn't have been true," Dr. Yves made a point of saying.

"Of course it wouldn't — but you don't know what that fuck — excuse me, that asshole — did to Casey. He had problems with being gay so everything was Casey's fault. If his father didn't like him it was Casey's fault. I mean, in Roy's head."

"How do you know this, Zeke?"

"Our roommate, Sasha, he was around, he saw it all happen. He saw Roy in action — and then there was this letter that Roy sent to Casey."

"Ah, yes. I have heard about the letter."

Zeke blinked at this information and went on. "Well, Roy basically told Casey that it was all about his father, didn't he? I was afraid that if we didn't do that dinner then Casey would think I was ashamed of him in some way."

"Casey?" Dr. Yves prompted. "What do you think about all this?"

Zeke's eyes were urging him: Come on, Case, I handed this to you, go for it...

"I guess it's true," Casey acknowledged, as though it hadn't occurred to him before.

"Which part?"

"I...I did feel like...if Zeke didn't..." It was so hard to make himself talk, he had to consciously force the muscles of his mouth to activate. "...if he couldn't, or the dinner was a dis — disaster it would be my fault."

"Why would you think that?"

"'Cause...what Zeke told you."

"Zeke? Did you think Casey had any responsibility for how your relationship is with your father?"

"No," Zeke said.

"Casey, did Zeke say or do anything that led you to think that?"

"No," Casey said, meaning it. Zeke had been his usual, dazzling self through that whole episode...so strong, so forgiving and understanding even while he was struggling with his personal barriers about his parents. Dr. Yves had yet to appreciate how very formidable Zeke was, really.

"You understand, Casey, that you are not responsible for Roy's emotions, or his father's, or Zeke's, or Zeke's father's?"

"Yeah."

"But? I hear a 'but'."

"I...I was the reason that Roy and his father didn't get along...if I hadn't been around..."

"If you weren't around, things would have been different for Roy?"

"Wouldn't they?" Casey challenged.

"Actually, I doubt it. Don't you think that if it hadn't been you in Roy's life, it would have been some other young man who got all the blame for Roy's poor relationship with his father?"

That comment was like a blade that cut right through his body. It murdered him.

"It wasn't about you, Casey," Yves finished.

"But...he loved me."

"Is it so important — "

"He did...he did love me."

Zeke suddenly looked at the window, and Casey knew that even now he didn't want to hear this, he didn't want Casey mourning and protesting over Roy. Zeke didn't want Casey to still feel things about that — but Casey couldn't not care, he had to care because if everything had happened without so much as an iota of love...no, it was not acceptable and therefore it was not true.

Dr. Yves said, "Maybe Roy did love you, Casey, I don't know. We can talk about how we define love some other day, but right now my concern is with this persistent belief you have that there is something about you that causes trouble for the people around you — the people who love you."

"I do make trouble."

"Zeke. Is there something in Casey that makes people act up? Is he that different?"

The pause was slight but it was there. Yes, it said.

"No," Zeke said. His eyes caught Casey's for a moment and reassured him You know that's a lie, Case, a total and utter lie but that'll have to stay between you and me while the world at large with all its shrinks can't know it. Zeke added, "But he is special...I think."

"I'm sure you're right," Dr. Yves agreed tolerantly. "You care for him, it's understandable that you would have feelings like that — and we're all special, aren't we, in the sense that we're all unique?"

"Yes," Zeke said absently. His eyes were burning, possessing Casey, promising him...When we get home I'm going to show you just how special I think you are.

The doctor had to interrupt, dispelling the moment. "Was there more about this thing with your father, Zeke?"

"Oh." Zeke dislodged his eyes from Casey's face. "My father asked me to come to his wedding in Los Angeles in a month or so."

"Yes, Casey told me."

"I told him I didn't know because I didn't know if Casey would be able to come."

"And you don't want to go unless Casey goes."

"I can't leave him alone."

"Okay, there's a couple of things here. First of all, if you weren't involved with Casey would you go to L.A., Zeke?"

Zeke shifted uneasy. "Only if — "

"No, Zeke, I said do you want to go. Just you."

Still uneasy, Zeke admitted, "Yes. I do want to — but if I didn't go, I wouldn't be devastated either."

"I understand that. You'd like an opportunity to renew ties with your father but if it doesn't happen it'll be okay."

"Yes," Zeke said, settling down.

"Having said that...I presume it's okay with your father Casey comes with you?"

"Yes."

"When is the wedding?"

"New Year's Day, so I could go and spend Christmas with them too if I wanted. Or I could fly up right after Christmas. I know Casey wants to be with his family for the holidays and they've invited me there too...so it's really awkward."

"And have you asked Casey if he wants to go with you?"

"Not — explicitly."

Dr. Yves turned to Casey. "How do you feel about going to L.A., Casey?"

Well, duh...like he wanted to be in a strange place, a strange bed, looking at strange walls, strangers galore all looking at him, no Sasha... "I'll go," he said quickly.

"But how do you feel about it?"

He didn't look at Zeke as he answered, "Terrified."

"What if Zeke went alone, then, and you had your holiday with your family? How do you feel about that?"

"Terrified."

"Which terrifies you more?"

"They both terrify me more."

Dr. Yves' mouth twitched. She said, "Bear in mind, Casey, that we're talking about something over a month away. You may be feeling different then. Zeke, you don't have to decide right now, do you?"

"I would say no," Zeke answered, "but my father did ask me to let him know as soon as possible. It's a planning thing."

"How so?"

"He wants me to be...like his best man."

"I see."

"But I don't particularly want to do that."

"Then you could tell your father that and he could plan his wedding accordingly. And you'd be free to decide closer to the date of the wedding whether or not you'll be coming."

"I guess I don't owe him much more than that."

"What you owe to him and to yourself, Zeke, is to be honest with him. And remember that choices don't have to be all or nothing. There are a number of different options you and Casey could choose."

"Right."

"Does this help any?"

"Yeah, actually."

"Good. Now, Casey, what I would suggest is don't be hasty about making a decision. We can discuss this more later too."

"Okay," Casey said, more than willing to let the subject drop for a while.

"Let me ask you this, though. Would you be willing to contemplate being apart from Zeke for the entire time that he might be in L.A.? You would be at home with your parents for most of that time, I assume."

"I don't want to go without Casey," Zeke said.

"I appreciate that, Zeke. But I am thinking it could be a very valuable exercise, a way for Casey to practice being — well, not alone because we know he'll be with his parents or with Sasha — but for you and Casey to be apart for a more substantial length of time. I'm sure you're both aware that it isn't necessary for you to be together constantly." Dr. Yves was openly observing Casey and Zeke closely as she dropped her little bomb. She remarked, "I guess that neither of you really like that suggestion."

"Really?" Zeke said, and he was no longer in High Battle Mode. He was in Don't Fuck With Me Mode. "What would make you think that?"

Dr. Yves ignored the sarcasm and answered him literally. "Well, Zeke, you're looking quite hostile to me at this moment. And Casey looks like he expects you to take charge. Are you going to take charge?"

"Yes," Zeke stated. "I am, and I'll tell you why. When Casey was in the hospital before, I had a doctor tell me to my face that I should stop coming around because it was in Casey's best interest. I absolutely refused then and I refuse now."

"What if Casey ever asked you to leave?"

"He won't. Or maybe he will, someday, and if it happens I'll respect that but for right now it's not going to happen. He needs me and I intend to make sure he has me."

Zeke said this while looking directly at Casey, and it wasn't entirely soothing to hear. It should have been a comfort...but it didn't just mean what it sounded like. It meant everything it had meant before, it was I'll never let you go and that was just fine except it also meant I'll determine what you need and deliver it, I'll protect you from your own craziness no matter how it hurts.

"Very well, Zeke. I'm not telling you to do anything though. I'm suggesting a thing that may be a therapeutic experience for both of you, which you can do or not do. For what it's worth, I think it was rather ill-advised of my colleague to try and make you stop seeing Casey. His assessment of the situation may have been accurate, but from a therapeutic standpoint that was not the most productive approach."

Zeke expelled air, calming visibly.

"Have we hashed this point out sufficiently, then, gentlemen?"

"I think so," Zeke answered for them.

Dr. Yves looked to Casey for his agreement and raised her eyebrows when Casey had no response. She said, "I'd like to move on to another topic, then."

"Okay, shoot," said Zeke. He shifted again, resettling into his chair and folding his hands like he was preparing himself to defend his dissertation.

"I was thinking that there you might be able to help us with some information. Casey and I have talked about his anxieties about being around people but we were unable to determine when it really started. He has difficulty remembering and I thought perhaps you could shed some light on this. If it's all right with you, Casey?"

Casey could only shrug and hope that he didn't look too apprehensive. A little part of him was curious to see how Zeke would handle this part without ever touching on alien factors. Maybe by the end Zeke would understand how it made coming here a bit useless and finally give him permission to stop.

"All right, Zeke?" Dr. Yves confirmed.

"I'll try," Zeke said casually.

"You've known Casey quite a while, right?"

"Since high school."

"Do you remember him ever telling you or showing you that he had this fear?"

"Yes, he did tell me one time..."

The memory came easily, Casey sitting across from Zeke eating fries, telling him his worries about aliens. Back then, they only interfered with his sleep, but the more he thought about it as time went on and he went to Cincinnati and everything happened and he came home and everything else happened, the more he realized that people couldn't be trusted to be people —

Modifying history just as required, Zeke said, "He told me he was nervous about people hurting him."

"Which people?"

"Students, mostly."

"Why should he think that?"

"Because they did hurt him, all the time."

"You mean they bullied him?"

"Yes."

"Casey has mentioned this to me but..." Dr. Yves turned a stern expression on him. "You made it sound not all that serious."

Zeke also frowned at Casey, who was perfectly aware that this was a performance for his benefit. This was The Story of Casey Connor as previously spun for Dr. Spadoni. Zeke was showing him how it was done, teaching him his lines — no sweat, be cool, just lay out the selected bits of history.

"How frequent was this bullying, Zeke?" Dr. Yves pressed.

"Daily, just about."

"And what did it consist of?"

"Pushing, hitting...sometimes worse."

"Casey, can you describe worse to me?"

Let's just say the flagpole and me were really close. "They were just always there, always...doing things. If they didn't do things they would say things."

"What sort of things?"

He shook his head, not too keen to relive it. Some of it was stupid, some was painful, and some was just too humiliating to speak about.

"Were you afraid to come to school?"

"Yes."

"But you still came."

"Yes."

"That took some courage."

Casey shrugged.

"You don't think so?"

"I didn't have a choice."

"You could have chosen to skip school, but you didn't."

"My — my parents expected me to — I always had good grades and I didn't want to blow my chances for college."

"Did you tell your parents about the bullying?"

"They didn't want to know about the — about what was going on."

"Did it start then, do you think? The feelings of panic?"

"I don't think so."

Zeke interposed, "But you were always kind of jumpy, Case. I remember that."

"Yeah," Casey conceded.

"That's understandable, isn't it?" said Dr. Yves. "Zeke, when's the first time that you noticed Casey having an anxiety attack?"

"It seems like it got really bad right after the hospital," Zeke mused out loud.

The trap was closing. Casey could see it all around him and there was nothing much that he could do to stop it from happening. He clenched his hands into fists.

Zeke went on, "Although, come to think of it, there were times last summer when he wanted to stay in, but we went out sometimes too and he didn't have panic attacks."

Dr. Yves turned back to Casey. "Would you agree, then, Casey, that it was right after the hospital that this phobia became more severe?"

"Yes," he said, because it seemed that was the truth and he wouldn't be helping his cause by denying it.

"So what happened?"

"When?"

"What happened in that time leading up to the hospital — or was it in the hospital — that made it so much worse?"

Casey felt two sets of eyes burning his face — one in enquiry, one in expectation. "N-Nothing in particular."

Dr. Yves regarded him for a few moments without speaking. Then she looked to Zeke and brazenly asked him, "Do you have any thoughts about this, Zeke?"

And Zeke — Zeke waited way too long before replying and you could be sure it wasn't by accident because Zeke was in top form now, he was in complete control and he would make his decisions on Casey's behalf without regard or reference to what Casey felt about it. He wanted Yves to see his long hesitation. "I don't think so," he answered at last.

"There isn't something that you want to say?"

Casey heard himself break in with, "It — it wasn't any — not any one thing, it just happened...There doesn't have to be a cause."

Dr. Yves nodded at him, but that was the extent of the acknowledgment. "Is there something you want to say, Zeke?" she pressed.

And Casey was seeing into Zeke's mind with complete clarity.

Zeke was face-to-face with the ideal opportunity. He had always wanted healing powers and now they seemed to have been granted to him. Tell Yves that there was a thing with a hotel, tell her that Casey was fucked up about sex and he, Zeke, fretted because Casey seemed to get off on self-destruction and got angry every time Zeke brought it up. This stuff was good for several months worth of therapy at least so it would not only sort Casey out, it would keep Casey and his shrink busy and off the subject of aliens. It was absolutely perfect — notwithstanding the fact that Casey was going to be furious and traumatized but Casey needed Zeke too badly to stay angry at him — and wasn't Zeke brilliant for manipulating this entire conversation to this point.

"Zeke?"

"I want you to know something," Zeke began. "About...the events leading up to the hospital."

"All right."

"Casey doesn't like to talk about this stuff and I know he's going to be pissed at me but..."

I'm going to say it anyway because I'm Zeke Tyler and I know what I know and I know this is for the best.

"...I have to tell you."

Dr. Yves wondered, "Do you know which something he's talking about, Casey?"

"No," he blurted. "I don't."

"Casey," Zeke said. Just like that. Just Casey, and he was betrayed. Casey, don't be so obvious, everyone knows the something is there so don't make yourself ridiculous by denying it.

"You have no right to talk about it!" Casey cried.

"I'm talking about my behaviour here, Casey." Zeke sucked a deep breath, as if there was something about this that was difficult for him, like he knew a fucking thing about difficult. To Dr. Yves he said, "What I want you to know is that...I think I'm responsible for things getting so bad during the summer."

Casey fought to assimilate that statement — okay, it was not exactly what he had been expecting. It had to be a part of the Zeke Tyler Plan, though. Probably just a little texture to make the story more effective.

"How so?"

"We started hanging out a lot this summer and...in a nutshell, I was afraid. I've always been attracted to Casey but I was afraid of what people would think, I didn't want anyone to know."

"Because of his being male?"

"Yeah, and I never thought I would be that stereotypical, I really believed I was totally open-minded until suddenly I was the one who was gay."

"It's still a big adjustment to make."

"I'm telling you this because I want you to understand that I was really not nice to Casey at all. He probably tells you about all the terrible things he thinks he's done to me, but you need to know that I've done things to him." Zeke's voice trembled slightly.

Casey couldn't follow this. It had to be some kind of lure or trick, baited with the suggestion of guilt. He could just stare and listen and wait.

"Go on, Zeke," said Dr. Yves.

"Casey was in trouble and I didn't support him. I didn't — "

"That's not true," Casey blurted, feeling that he had to resist this even if he couldn't see where it went.

"It is true," Zeke insisted. There were even tears in his eyes. "I made my plans to come to Seattle and I never once suggested to you that I wanted you with me. You thought you were alone...I drove you back to Roy."

"No, I wanted — "

"You let him use you, Case."

Casey shook his head furiously. "It wasn't like that, it — "

But Zeke was ignoring him. "Dr. Yves, when I found out that Casey was seeing Roy — "

"I was fucking Roy," Casey spat. "The term is fucking."

" — I was angry and hurt. I'm possessive, I admit that. It's not one of my best qualities. I lashed out at Casey when he was about ready to fall apart. I called him a slut and that was so wrong I can't...it was terribly wrong. And then Casey ran away and the next thing I knew, he was in the hospital. Maybe if I had behaved better, it wouldn't have happened."

Dr. Yves said, "I appreciate you telling me this, Zeke, and I know it isn't easy — but I want you to remember that you are not responsible for the state of Casey's health."

"I just want you to know that he has good reasons for believing that people will leave him."

There was a silence, and then — it seemed to Casey that they both turned on him at exactly the same moment, all the better to pin the specimen in his chair, keep him from moving. And indeed, he couldn't move, he was so caught that he could barely see the outline of his cage but he would involuntarily twitch and thrash a bit and put on a nice little display for them....Poke it there...see, how its legs move? Now try there...Ahhh, fascinating reflexes, poke it some more.

"So Casey, do you agree with Zeke's version of events as he described it just now?"

"No."

"What do you not agree with?"

"Zeke's not responsible for me being in the hospital."

"Who is, then?"

"I am."

"Are you just saying that because you want to get the right answer, Casey? Or do you believe it?"

"I know it."

"Do you know the difference between blaming yourself and taking responsibility?"

"I'm not blaming myself. I just got sick and it's up to me to get better but it's no one's fault, right?"

Dr. Yves tilted her head. "You're a good student, Casey," she commented, and began to scan the notes she had made. They waited while she reviewed her page, searching...considering her next question carefully, how and where to prod him for maximum response. There was nothing to do but wait until she found what she was looking for so when she asked her question, he was already bracing himself.

"Casey, a few minutes ago you said something to Zeke. You said Zeke didn't have the right to tell me something, what did you think he was going to tell me?"

"Nothing," Casey muttered. "Just — what he said."

"I didn't have the impression that it was nothing."

"So don't believe me, then."

"What if I asked Zeke? Could he tell me?"

"He'd love to tell you, but he doesn't know a fucking thing." As much as he wanted to disable the feeling parts of himself right now, it wasn't working; he was rapidly losing containment. He could not remain sitting another second, he was up and ready for flight, but he was just going to make sure she understood a few things first. "He wants to tell you something right now but he would much rather have me do it so he can be the good guy, that's the whole point here!"

"Casey — " Zeke started in his Very Reasonable Voice.

"Don't," Casey warned. He thought he heard a hissing noise...something was about to explode. "Just fucking don't."

Dr. Yves spoke with a voice that must have been developed solely for the purpose of calming rowdy patients while tidily putting them in their place. It was both soothing and firm. It said it wasn't going to take any crap. "It was not my intention to make you feel threatened, Casey, I was only exploring something you said yourself a few minutes ago."

"Fine, and I'm — " His voice had started to wobble. He had to get out. "I'm d-done here."

"Don't leave, please, Casey," he heard as he ran from her office.

He had been thinking to sit in the car until Zeke came out but that was of course nonsense, and not only because the doors were locked. He would not sit in Zeke's car and wait for Zeke to give him a ride. He didn't want to see Zeke or talk to him, and he certainly didn't want any more of Zeke's particular brand of help.

 

"Should I go after him?" Zeke sighed.

"I think that's up to you," said Casey's shrink. "Do you want to?"

Zeke had been perched on the edge of his chair, ready for pursuit, but in response to her question he subsided. "No," he said slowly. "I'm sure he'll just go home, and I'm in no hurry to start the next battle." He looked up. "I feel like I should apologize."

"That isn't necessary." Dr. Yves folded her hands. "Regardless of how it ended, I think this was a good session. Thank you for coming, Zeke, it's been very helpful. If you're willing, I'd like for you to come to another one."

"Not next time, though."

"I don't think so. Casey and I have some things to talk out together." Checking the time, Dr. Yves said, "We do have a few minutes left. Is there something else you'd like to talk about?"

"You aren't going to ask me what Casey's big secret is?"

"Would you tell me? Of course I would have to share with him whatever you shared with me."

"I know that...and anyway the answer is no."

"All right, then."

"I really was hoping to talk about something that happened the other day. A whole bunch of somethings, actually. And I need some advice about practical things."

"I'm not really in the business of giving advice, Zeke — but tell me about this thing that happened."

"We were in this coffee shop — don't ask me how I got him there, it's a long, sordid story but there we were, Casey, Winona and me."

"Winona?"

"You know who she is, right?"

"Yes." Dr. Yves' mouth wore a wry twist.

"Then you know that she in herself is a big issue."

"Yes, but Zeke, I promised Casey that we would not talk about that issue, and I especially can't do it with Casey not present."

"I see," Zeke remarked. For someone who acted like he was powerless, Casey did a fine job of sewing everyone's mouths up tight. "Fine, I'll just stick to the part that isn't about Winona. What happened was Casey promised that he would do twenty-five minutes in the coffee shop but after ten he wanted to bail. I argued with him and tried to convince him he should stick it out and he got more and more anxious until he was really losing it, and in public too. I was right in the middle of it trying to figure out if I should cave or not and I just didn't know which way to go. I mean, this is just happening to me all the time now. There's the stuff where I say I'd like to go out somewhere and he says go ahead but I know he desperately wants me not to go. Should I do what he says or what I know he really wants?"

After some moments to digest Zeke's ramble, Dr. Yves remarked thoughtfully, "You do have a lot on your plate, don't you, Zeke?"

He shook his head. "Sure, whatever, but I can handle it as long I know that I'm helping him."

"I'm afraid it can't always be that clear. Above all, you need to remember that you aren't responsible for whether Casey is sick or well or happy or sad."

"I know that."

"But from the way you were talking earlier, and just now, it seems that you want to dictate where Casey goes and how long he stays when in fact that is Casey's decision and Casey's alone."

"With all due respect, Doctor..." Zeke had to make an effort to speak evenly. "...I understand the whole I'm-Okay-You're-Okay individual responsibility concept and that's all well and good but I'm in the trenches every day here and I have a million chances to nudge Casey one way or another so I don't want to hear about how Casey is responsible for himself and I'm responsible for myself. I know all that. What I want here is information."

Dr. Yves smiled broadly. "All right, point taken."

"So if Casey says ‘Zeke I want to go home...?'"

"You're going to be frustrated with me, Zeke, but there really is no easy answer. There is a thin line between helping and enabling and it's different in different scenarios. Yes, on one hand it is good for Casey to do what he fears so he can gradually learn that he will be okay...but then there can be a point when the fear becomes so overwhelming that it only reinforces the anxiety. I can't give you a magic checklist that will show you where that point is in any given situation."

Zeke grumbled. "Fine...I guess I should have known that. It just feels like he's testing me sometimes."

"Which is why you should try, as much as possible, to make your decisions based on what feels right for you. Otherwise you turn yourself inside-out trying to second guess everything. And I do think that if you make a decision about something major — such as your trip to L.A. — it would be best if you didn't back out on that." Dr. Yves put her pad of paper aside, and reached for her daytimer. "I'm afraid our time is up now, Zeke. I was going to speak to Casey about his next session but since he's not here...Usually we meet on Thursdays but this week is Thanksgiving of course, and since I'm taking Friday off as well, that really only leaves tomorrow or Wednesday."

"Couldn't you just go until next Monday?"

"We could — although I feel it is probably better not to let too much time lapse before I see him again. Can you ask him to call me so we can sort this out?"

"Sure," he said, wondering how she could speak so calmly of the next session when her patient had just fled her office in a rage.

"I hope I was of some help," she said as he got up to leave.

Zeke tried for a smile. "I suppose it's wrong to expect anything to do with Casey to be simple and easy." He shook her hand. "Thank you."

"Take care, Zeke."

As he had predicted, Casey was not in the waiting room, nor outside on the steps, nor anywhere near the car. Zeke repressed the burgeoning panic and went home, relying on the assumption that he would find Casey there. He did the speed limit, though; as much as he wanted to reassure himself that Casey was all right, he was not looking forward to confronting the aftermath of the past hour.

It appeared that Sasha was not home yet. Zeke took a quick tour of the apartment, expecting to find Casey in the shower or in the bedroom under his afghan — but Zeke eventually discovered him sitting up on the roof, huddled in one of the wicker chairs. He did not look up or even acknowledge Zeke.

"Case."

Nothing. Not a twitch.

Zeke sat down in the second chair. He said, "Casey, if you're mad at me be a grown-up about it, don't give me this silent treatment crap."

In reply, Casey kicked the small, metal table, knocking it over. If he wanted to demonstrate how very irrational and immature he could be, he was succeeding very well. Zeke merely watched the table fall, then asked, "Do you feel a little better now that you've assaulted an inanimate object?"

"Maybe," Casey growled.

"Are you going to talk to me?"

"No."

"Are you staying up here, then? Because I'm going to be in the apartment a lot over the next few weeks and I don't need some passive-aggressive person glaring at me every time I turn around."

Casey sat forward, trembling, staring at Zeke with such intense anger that Zeke began to ready himself to receive some new bruises. It didn't seem like Casey was going to use his mouth at all — but then it went off like a gun: "If you don't like it then maybe you shouldn't have said what you said. Maybe you should never have come at all so — and you're not coming with me again — so she could be all what do you think Zeke and do you agree with that Zeke while I'm fucking sitting right there! What a relief that the freak took off so you could have a real conversation with her!"

Zeke commanded himself not to react. "Casey," he said. "I didn't tell her a fucking thing."

"I was right there, I'm not deaf."

"I didn't tell her anything."

"Only that there was something to be told!"

"Well, isn't there?"

"No!" Casey screamed at him.

"Are you going to tone it down?"

"No!"

"All right, yell, then," Zeke retorted. "But I just gave you a fucking gift — a real issue that you can discuss with her."

Casey jumped up so he was in a position to shout down at Zeke. "Maybe you could stop trying to help me, how about that!"

"I was helping you, Casey."

"That's what you think! Every time you meet with a shrink, I get fucked over!"

Zeke attempted to ignore how much that hurt. "I can't believe you think that...I only want to — "

" — to help me, yeah...I told you before, I told you and I told Sasha...There is nothing to talk about, do you get me?"

"Yeah," Zeke replied, controlling himself with an effort. "I get you, but here's the thing, Casey. That's a lie. There is something and it's a huge part of the problem. I'm not going to tell you what I know about it because it wouldn't do us any good right now, but you should know that I've figured some things out. So you needn't go around thinking it's some big secret that no one else can even guess at."

From the look on Casey's face, the possibility that Zeke knew exactly what had gone on between himself and Roy was unthinkable. It was not to be contemplated.

"I'm not asking you to have a conversation about it with me," Zeke said. "Just please — please — can you talk about it with her and no one else will ever have to hear about it. It can just be between you and her. You won't have to fight her every week and worry about her finding out about the aliens because it has nothing to do with them. This is something you can really work on with her."

"You don't know," Casey said, nearly crying. "You don't know."

"I guess I don't," Zeke said tiredly.

"Zeke, I can't."

"I heard you."

"Can't go back there."

Zeke was exhausted, in fact. "Do we have to keep having this discussion?"

"C-can't go back, it just isn't working, Zeke, please, there's nothing to talk about — "

"You have things to talk about, lots of things," Zeke insisted. Casey started to walk away from him, heading towards the stairs and Zeke caught his arm. "Case — "

Casey cringed away from him, yanking his arm so hard that it seemed he would have willingly left the limb behind to get away. "Let me go!" he cried.

Zeke obeyed instantly but remained in Casey's space. Maybe he would let some things go, but not the essential point. "You have lots of things to talk about," he reiterated.

"I'm going to..." Tremors tore through Casey and his face shuddered with the things that he was desperately holding behind it. "To...have a shower."

Zeke did not follow Casey down the stairs. He was not done, no fucking way was he done yet but he would give Casey twenty minutes before he went in to fetch him. It was more than long enough for a cigarette.

When Zeke was done smoking that cigarette, he went downstairs and waited at the kitchen table. Perhaps he should have spent the time strategizing, but his mind was curiously empty. He had no idea what he was going to say or do; he only knew that he wasn't done talking yet.

Only fifteen minutes had passed when he heard the door open and Casey came out to the dining area. He was still dressed, his hair dry; it seemed he had not been in the shower at all. He stood in front of Zeke and said, his manner miraculously both submissive and defiant, "What if I told her about the aliens?"

Zeke's head gave a painful throb. Frowning, he took a few extra seconds with that statement but he couldn't solve it, no matter how he worked with it. "I'm confused," he admitted at last. "Did you say...you want to tell her about the aliens?"

"No," Casey said. He pinned Zeke with a glare so that there could be no doubt about why he was saying this. "Don't want to. Just — maybe I will."

It took a moment for it to sink in all the same, but once it did, it had Zeke on the move. He was out of his chair and advancing on Casey, demanding, "Is that some kind of threat? Are you trying to tell me you would talk to her about aliens to avoid telling her about what Roy did to you?"

"N-No, that's not it — not — "

Casey took a frantic step back, but Zeke was quicker and he wasn't letting him get away. He got both hands on Casey's shoulders, imprisoning him. "I think it is."

"I — "

"Or is this is some new, subtle attempt to disappear on me, Casey? Because it's not going to work."

"I was just thinking — "

"Well, stop it." Casey was a brilliant thinker, of course. His thoughts were prolific, fascinating, they rocked — unless it had something to do with his own well-being, in which case he seemed incapable of being anything but counter-productive.

"I still have to tell her something," Casey argued. "I have to or we'll sit there — like — and she's supposed to help me but she can't — it's not fair to her. I have to give her something to work with."

"So you tell her about Roy."

Still trapped in Zeke's grasp, Casey actually stamped his foot. "Tell her what?" His mouth formed a tight, trembling line.

"You know what."

"I've — already told her everything I'm going to tell her about Roy."

"Okay," Zeke said, panting with rage. "Tell her whatever bullshit you like but get this through your head — you are not talking to her about the aliens!"

Casey tugged himself, trying unsuccessfully to break Zeke's grip. "You think you're ordering me..."

Zeke gritted, "If you want to call it that. I call it me stopping you from doing something completely insane." Casey made yet another attempt to separate himself from Zeke; Zeke let him go absolutely nowhere, this time clamping down on his upper arms and dragging him even closer. "You want me to remind you what it was like?" he pressed. "I don't know how it's possible, but maybe you've forgotten what it's like to have every person in the country think that you're crazy."

"I'm only talking about telling one person," Casey muttered.

Zeke could feel the danger all around him. He was drowning in it. "No, you're only talking about how to avoid talking about the bigger issues — and you're trying to scare me into backing down, but I can't, Casey." Completely without warning, sobs tried to take control of his voice. "I can't — I can't lose you — and — if I have to be the bad guy to stop that from happening, I will."

"What would you do?" Casey asked. He said it without his former defiance, almost resigned but still testing the limits, his voice thick with tears but steady.

"Don't ask me, Case. Let's just say you know and I know that I have ways to do it."

It took an eternity to hear an answer, during which Zeke was staring into the face of mutual assured destruction. Casey could choose not to back down. Regardless of what Zeke did or said, Casey could still act and once he did Zeke would no longer have any leverage against him. He could do as he threatened but he'd have nothing left with which to threaten. Zeke was counting on Casey's desperate addiction to silence and his fear of being alone — and Casey knew it. He knew that Zeke was deliberately using his anxieties against him. He knew that Zeke was a bully.

It only took one word for Casey to submit. "Okay."

Zeke wasn't satisfied. "Okay, what?"

"Okay, I won't tell her."

Zeke nodded, releasing Casey. He didn't dare say thank you. He didn't dare a comforting touch. Anything he did would make his actions that much more brutal so he stood by and watched as Casey rubbed his wrists slowly, not looking at Zeke.

"I need some Tylenol," Zeke rasped, not sure why he was announcing it. He couldn't be hoping for Casey to feel sorry for him. He went to the medicine cabinet, and then, lacking the courage for anything else, he went up for a smoke. He noted in passing that Casey was still standing exactly where he had been, still not looking at Zeke.

When Zeke came downstairs again he immediately recognized the dialogue from some of the early scenes from Casablanca. He told himself to stop being a fucking coward and walked into the living room.

Casey had pulled the curtains to create a dim, womb-like setting, and Zeke saw that he was a dark bundle on the couch, arms around his shins, hands holding onto the hems of his pants. His gaze was dull and resolute on the screen. He blinked in Zeke's direction briefly, then returned to his viewing of one of the classics without a hint of acknowledgment or welcome.


	4. Chapter 4

It had to be the biggest turkey Zeke had ever seen, glossy, cookbook- perfect and surrounded by a constellation of side dishes. At the head of the table, Charlotte Rosado wore a pastel-blue apron over a cream sweater and tan slacks. One kitchen, one cook, the apron warned. Should the rule require enforcement, a set of carving knives was within easy reach. There had been no pretense of offering them to Stan, the male of the household, which was something of a relief since Zeke didn't know how he felt about Stan wielding knives, or any cooking implements for that matter. He had already resolved not to ask if Stan had helped with preparing this meal.

"I don't really do grace," Charly said. "That isn't a problem for anyone, is it?"

There was a enthusiastic head shake from Stokely and a shrug from Stan. Sasha went further and verbalized it: "Not at all."

Charly continued, "I thought instead we could try going around the table and saying what we're thankful for while I carve up the turkey. That's a nice tradition, I think."

This time she got rolled eyes and expressions of incipient panic. Zeke shot a surreptitious glance at Casey, across and two side dishes to the left of the turkey. Casey did not appear to have heard the question. He was not looking at Charly, nor at Zeke, nor anyone in the room; to anyone who didn't know him it might have seemed that the food spread out before him had all of his attention.

The home of Charlotte Rosado was an older, two-storey structure filled with what Zeke, with his limited understanding of real estate terminology, understood as "character." She'd given Casey, Sasha and Zeke a brief tour when they arrived; every room was well-turned out, adventurous but tasteful, and Sasha had been making envious gurgles and squeaks the entire way through. It wasn't what Zeke had expected from this woman who was brusque and kind of tom-boyish; he'd imagined a bachelor pad filled with sports memorabilia — and yeah, the memorabilia was there, but confined to designated areas. There was a TV room, too, containing a screen even bigger than Zeke's. Now there was a room that a boy could love, and Stan was very open in his feelings about it. They had sat in there for the hour or so before dinner was ready, engaged in the traditional Thanksgiving activities of the American male. Zeke had let himself be seduced by the soothing distraction of sports blather while obliquely observing Stokely's attempt at conversation with Casey. She hadn't gotten much out of him, to Zeke's satisfaction.

As for the room where they now sat, Martha Stewart could probably have collected royalties for it. It was an actual dining room separate from other spaces, with a large picture window spanning one wall, providing a view of two mammoth spruce trees in the front yard. It also featured an antique walnut table that easily would have seated ten. The napkins, plates and tableware were a coordinated, aesthetic whole. The walls were the colour of coffee and whole cream, hung with black and white photographs of vineyards and other conspicuously European landscapes. Zeke had seen Casey looking at them with almost-interest and wondered what had become of the photography habit that he recalled from their high school years. Maybe it had just been a phase, like Zeke's drug-making habit, but he did recall Roy's letter making some reference to Casey taking pictures so maybe there had been something more to it. Zeke resolved to ask Casey about it — that was, if Casey ever again said more to him than "Where's the pill bottle?" and "Yes, I went to my appointment."

"Cool," Stokely finally said in reply to Charly's comment when no one else had leapt to do it.

Charly favoured Stokely, who was sitting to the immediate left of her, with a smile of thanks, and then moved on along that side of the table to Casey. She said, "Casey, would you like to start?" Perhaps she was trying to be a good hostess and draw out the guest who most needed it, Zeke didn't know, but he did know he wasn't feeling particularly generous towards her right then.

Of course, Casey showed absolutely no reaction.

"Casey?" said Charly, sounding as awkward and concerned as everyone else at the table appeared. On Casey's other side, Sasha looked like he might be about to grab his strings and perform an act of ventriloquism, but before he could intervene, Stokely elbowed Casey in the side. It didn't look all that forceful, but Casey twitched and looked mutely at her.

"Um...sorry," Casey faltered. "Did you...ask me something?"

"We're saying what we're thankful for," Stokely said.

"Going around the table taking turns," Sasha supplied.

Casey squinted slightly at Stokely, as though this were a trick question.

"I'll go first," she volunteered. She tried for deliberate good cheer, tapping her fingers on the mocha-tinted table cloth as she mused aloud, "Okay...What do I have to be thankful for...?"

Stokely was wearing a white embroidered blouse, denim skirt, and an assortment of funky jewellery. With her freckled complexion and shining strawberry- red hair, she seemed restored to her original state of flourishing health. For his part, Zeke thought she looked wonderful and Stan apparently thought so too, from the way he had been ogling her. Like right now — he was wearing a calf-eyed look and Stokely did not appear to be entirely unreceptive to it as she drummed her fingers and made a show of thinking.

"Some time today," Zeke heard himself say roughly.

Stokely narrowed her eyes at him. "This isn't easy, you know."

"I'm just saying...Charly cooked all this food and it's getting cold."

"Hey, I don't want anyone to get stressed about this," Charly intervened. "You don't have to make a big speech. Maybe you're thankful for post-it notes or baseball caps. No one's grading you, I promise."

Stokely took a deep breath and began. "Right...well, I'm thankful that Charly made breast of tofu for me, and I'm grateful to be here with my friends today." She was conspicuously not looking at Zeke as she said it, implying that his inclusion in that particular category was questionable. Meanwhile, she bestowed upon Casey the majority of her visible good will.

In fact, they were all looking at Casey, staring and then glancing away, then staring again because it seemed appropriate, yet finding it difficult because he exhibited something too private and too blatant for the comfort of everyday company. Except for Zeke, who didn't care and could look forever; he had been starved of Casey for days now.

At least ten times since Monday, Zeke had been on the verge of marching into the living room and smashing through that barrier of silence. A few times, he had gotten as far as the marching-to-the-living-room part only to be captured by a stare that was somehow full and empty at the same time. Casey would keep him pinned like that for a few seconds before he released him and turned back to whatever movie he was watching at the moment. The Philadelphia Story and Casablanca — the only two DVDs they owned apart from Zeke's collection of sports documentaries — had gotten a serious workout until Tuesday, when Casey had brought home a stack of rentals after his appointments. He had carried out necessary errands around the house but otherwise he just watched his movies and didn't really speak; he would talk to Sasha, from what Zeke had been told, but not very much. Essentially, when he was in the apartment and he wasn't watching a movie, he was sleeping. He had slept one night with Sasha but otherwise he stuck to the couch. He had not been in his and Zeke's bed once since Sunday night.

It was not going to go on like this, that was what Zeke knew. He was action guy and he was going to take action. All of the waiting and uncertainty were building up inside him, and it was getting to a point where he knew he was going to crack, he was going to be doing and saying any number of things, no longer able to discern whether he was accomplishing anything or just misbehaving. Being Charly's guest for Thanksgiving was, at worst, an inconvenience and, at best, an intermission in his continuing state of crisis. He'd come here only because both he and Casey could really use a change of scenery and a good meal. He'd had a headache for forty-six straight hours now, and Casey was looking increasingly ragged. Stokely had been openly distressed when she saw him.

But Zeke had seen worse things. Late last night after he'd given up on studying and crashed, he had awakened suddenly to find a presence standing at his bedside. "Casey?" he had said, pushing himself up on one elbow.

The spectre had said nothing, staring down with hollow black pits instead of eyes. It had brushed a cold finger along his jaw, then vanished, leaving him shaking.

"Casey?" said Charly, trying yet again. "Do you want to take your turn now?"

The silence lengthened again. Zeke wished that Charly would just fucking give it up or that someone would muzzle the hostess.

"My turn then!" Sasha sang out.

Nervous relief made Zeke's tongue more sharper than he wanted it to be. "Oh, here we go," he muttered quite audibly, regretting it even as he spoke. Really, it was a fucking mystery that he had any friends at all. It was hard enough that they had to find ways to tolerate him being right as often as he was — and then he had to make it harder by acting like a cocky bugger all the time.

Sasha glared at him of course, just like he had been doing for the past three days. Zeke was enduring it without much complaint. He figured he probably deserved it and there was little else Sasha could do since neither Casey nor Zeke had told him much about what was going on.

"I'm thankful that I've been invited here today," Sasha began. "Very thankful, because I'm sure I'd be at home slaving over a hot stove right now otherwise."

"Aw..." Stokely commiserated.

"Not that I mind that much, it's just nice that today someone else is doing it. And it looks and smells wonderful." Always gracious, Sasha raised his glass of wine to their hostess. "To the cook."

Everyone quickly followed suit. "To the cook!"

Zeke joined the chorus, choking down a swallow of the dreadful crap in his glass. He knew almost nothing about wine, but he did recognize cheap, screw-cap swill when he tasted it. The flaring of Sasha's nostrils as he drank only confirmed it; apparently, Charly's good taste didn't extend to choosing a decent vintage. Zeke noted that Casey had mumbled along with the rest of them, even taking a tiny sip from his own glass. No one else would have been able to tell from his bland face that he didn't like the taste, but Zeke could.

Meanwhile, Charly had gone a rosy colour; she was not a person who received compliments well. "You're quite welcome, really," she said. "I know it's hard when you're away from family during a holiday. And I'm really sorry your boyfriend couldn't make it, Sasha."

It was Sasha who was flustered now, which was interesting. Something had to be going on with Jerry and Sasha but Zeke hadn't been paying enough attention to Sasha this week to know what it was. Flushing, Sasha replied, "Oh, you know...He has an entire clan in this city, I don't think his mother would allow him to go anywhere else without severe backlash."

"She didn't invite you to join them?" Charly wondered.

Which would be one of those out-of-the blue, not so subtle questions that were Charly's claim to infamy. Stan cringed visibly but Sasha didn't appear to be offended. "They did, but..." Suddenly, Sasha was staring meaningfully at Zeke. "He wanted to be with his family...and I wanted to be with mine."

A terrible notion seized Zeke: That he might just cry here in front of Stan and Charly and everyone else. It was an insupportable proposition. The problem was, three days could be a very long, very trying time when you were the resident criminal.

He tried to make himself like a rock or a block of wood, something inanimate and emotion-free. When he was in high school he'd honed that skill and used it every day; the trick was in knowing that this inanimate state was temporary and he really did have feelings that would be felt later. It was the promise of later that always tamed the emotions and then once he got to a place where it was safe to feel he would often discover that they really didn't require much attention at all.

"Zeke...?" Charly said with that impeccable timing of hers. "Do you want to tell us what you're thankful for?"

He just wasn't achieving that inanimate state he wanted. The method wasn't working for him, he felt too much; he'd become too invested and now all of his faculties were occupied by the futile project of reviewing each moment that he experienced with Casey, trying to determine which were the critical ones, the ones that he could stick with the labels:

Here I made a tactical error.

Here I hurt Casey.

Here I fucked myself royally.

Here I screwed it all up.

 

"Play it once, Sam. For old times' sake."

"I don't know what you mean, Miss Ilsa."

"Play it, Sam. Play ‘As Time Goes By.'"

"Oh, I can't remember it, Miss Ilsa, I'm a little rusty on it."

"I'll hum it for you..."

The living room was filled with a wistful piano tune that was instantly familiar.

"Sing it, Sam."

"You must remember this...A kiss is still a kiss...A sigh is still a sigh...."

Grey light flickered on dark walls, just barely revealing Casey who was staring at his movie, staring at anything but Zeke. Casey's body was a defensive bundle, forbidding intervention. Zeke waited and stared and hoped but Casey gave him nothing to go on. This certainly looked like a stance of anger, but without any cues he didn't know what Casey wanted him to do.

Okay, then, he should rely on his own analysis of the situation. And then he was to make a decision and stick to it, but first, there had to be some assessment...So there was the little Sasha that lived in his head screaming Go to him, talk to him, you repressed, macho twit! but there was also logic — in which he still placed a certain amount of faith. To obey the Sasha-Voice he would have to believe that his presence was actually wanted, and he couldn't make that assumption. Because he had committed an act of violence. He had used the gifts of his mind, and the power in his hands and his voice, to pound on Casey. To now speak softly and touch with gentleness seemed so hypocritical and false that Zeke just couldn't bring himself to do it.

More to the point, if he touched Casey now he wouldn't be able to stop, and he knew intuitively that not-stopping would mean disaster.

So he went to the bedroom. He booted up the computer and opened the file that was the skeleton of his paper for Major World Religions, a comparison of Hinduism and Buddhism in all of ten pages. He had typed his notes directly from the books he was using, including relevant page numbers, and tediously put his points into the order that he wanted. That had taken quite a while, and now to turn all of this into some sort of narrative would take even longer but he was beginning to find that he could move at a reasonably good pace, using a hunt and peck method of his own devising. For the next couple of hours, his focus on his schoolwork was almost sublime in its completeness.

Somewhere along the way he decided that he was waiting for Casey to come to him. That was not punishment or manipulation, it was just practical. He was respecting Casey — belatedly perhaps, but it was never too late to try. In the meantime, it felt good to concentrate on a problem that was straightforward. Five thousand years of history, thousands of gods and goddesses with their complicated lineages and billions of worshippers had nothing on Casey Connor.

Eventually, Zeke's stomach alerted him that he was hungry. He ventured to the kitchen to fix himself a sandwich, listening briefly to the music and dialogue from the other room — now it was The Philadelphia Story, which meant that Casey must have gotten off the couch at least long enough to change the disc. That thought was obscurely comforting.

Surely an offering of food would not be incorrect. Zeke analyzed that premise, and decided that it couldn't hurt. Even if Zeke had been transformed into a villain over the past several hours, certain essential matters could not be disregarded. Casey still needed to eat regular meals and to Zeke's knowledge he hadn't had anything since the waffles that morning.

He put together what he knew to be one of Casey's favourites — thin slices of cheddar cheese and tomato on white bread with real mayonnaise. It was a conundrum to Zeke but the liking of it was well-established. Coupling the sandwich with a glass of some esoteric, organic fruit blend — Sasha always bought it because he considered most so-called juice to be "glorified Kool-Aid" — Zeke resisted the urge to tiptoe into the living room. He would walk, dammit, and not cringe.

It was past dinnertime and completely dark in the room save for the light glowing from the black and white fiction on the screen and the glint of Casey's eyes. His absorption in the images did not waver until the plate landed on the coffee table before him with a gentle scrape. His eyes jerked in Zeke's direction.

"Food," Zeke stated.

Just as quickly, Casey averted his gaze from both Zeke and the sandwich. He was sitting very much as he had been before, with his hands loosely clasped around his shins. Zeke saw his hands move up towards his chest, shaping themselves into fists.

"Are you going to eat it?"

Casey shrugged.

Zeke swallowed his annoyance, although it didn't go down easily. Still, it would not further his cause any if he were to snap at Casey now. "It's your...your favourite."

Fuck. He was turning into Marge Simpson.

He rephrased: "Eat it, please." That was better, he could even keep some self-respect. It was polite, but it was not a request.

"Okay," Casey said, his eyes flickering in Zeke's direction briefly.

There was no part of him that did not scream Go away, goawaypleaserightnow! so Zeke went away; he took his own sandwich to his room and ate, even though it tasted like cardboard and rubber.

He resumed working on his paper, making great progress at it. At one point he thought he heard Casey moving around in the kitchen, running water. Soon after that the apartment became silent; the movie had stopped playing. Zeke strongly suspected that Casey was asleep.

Around ten the phone rang and there was absolutely no question in Zeke's mind that it was Winona; it had to be, nothing else would epitomize the sort of bad timing that he was beginning to expect on a daily basis. He did not bother to get up, as the phone was in the living room and Casey would undoubtedly get to it first; he just closed his eyes and braced himself for more chaos — but he heard nothing at all from Casey. The phone continued to ring until the answering machine kicked in. "Hi, Zeke," said Winona's voice from the kitchen. "I was going to ask you something...but it's not important. I'll see you tomorrow. Okay, bye."

Zeke couldn't imagine that Casey hadn't heard this. After several minutes of silence, nervous energy drove Zeke out to the living room to discover the state of things.

The room was darker than he had ever seen it before; he had to turn on a light in the kitchen first to avoid tripping over his own feet. The blackness continued to bother him, so he went to the window and pushed aside the curtains, letting in some light from the street. In that light, he could easily see the half-eaten sandwich, the empty juice glass, and Casey, deeply asleep. Right then he looked so endearing and peaceful that it was difficult to process the memory of his wrath earlier. Zeke found that he rather liked the paradox, although he didn't much like being on the receiving end of the wrath.

Maybe, Zeke thought, he should wake Casey and get him to go to bed; maybe that was all he needed to do to make everything okay. The thing about Casey's anger was, it was usually a brief thing that would spout and erupt all over you, and then dissipate until the next time it was ready to build itself up.

Or maybe not. The last time Casey got it into his head that Zeke had sold him out to the shrinks, his anger had gone on for days and days before it finally crested, and even though it had crashed, it was still around, fueling his reactions to this latest transgression. Zeke's mind easily foretold Casey, upon being shaken awake, looking accusingly up at him as if to say It isn't enough that you betray me to Yves and bully me and threaten me, now you won't even let me sleep?

No, he resolved to leave Casey alone until Casey gave him the sign that it was all right to approach. The least he could do was to stick to his plan — that was doctor's orders, even — and respect Casey's autonomy for once. He left Casey as he was but compromised with himself and went to fetch the afghan from the bedroom. He brought it to the couch and draped it over Casey's body, covering everything but his head, watching anxiously for any sign that the sleeping angel would wake and summon another blue inferno. But Casey didn't even twitch. It dawned on Zeke that Xanax had to be involved.

Returning to the bedroom, Zeke made a perfunctory attempt to continue working but almost immediately came to the knowledge that he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes. They were fever-hot from overuse, and his legs ached from general exhaustion. He sprawled on the bed thinking to just take a few hours' break and was shocked when he woke up to daylight.

His first thought was that Casey was not where he should be. In his just-waking disorientation Zeke forgot why and how that had come about; a shot of adrenalin yanked him on his feet — at which point, he remembered yesterday. This was the first morning in many, many weeks that he had wakened without Casey's presence, and the time in the past when he had longed to have a bed to himself was so far distant that it was like thinking about some character in a story he had been reading instead of remembering himself.

He was going to go to Casey and speak to him and they were going to put this behind them. He knew Casey; he knew that Casey would not turn him away. Casey had never turned him away, no matter what he did.

He staggered to the living room. There again was the half-eaten sandwich, the empty glass, but no Casey. His next idea was to go up to the roof and look for Casey there; then a hunch sent him to Sasha's door. He pushed it open, as close to silently as he could. Casey was indeed there, curled up with Sasha, both of them apparently still asleep. However, at the slight creak of the door hinges, Sasha's eyes opened and found Zeke's. He said nothing, but Zeke did not miss the way the circle of his arms seemed to shrink, enclosing Casey firmly. And he smiled in a way that was less a friendly welcome than a showing of teeth to ward off a predator.

Zeke considered it wise to withdraw — for now. He brushed his teeth, got dressed and skipped breakfast in favour of two quick cigarettes sucked down to the filter while he waited at the bus stop.

He was late to his World Religions class, and as usual, Winona had saved him a seat. She was waiting with an expectant face that had neediness written all over it, that made him want to go and sit somewhere else. The two classes that they had together now seemed like two more than he could take. There weren't a lot of seats to choose from though, and it did occur to him that his ego could use a bit of gratuitous flattery. As he sat down she raised her brows in a momentary expression of friendly concern, then wrote to him on her note-paper Everything okay?

He nodded, his jaw clenching. The surprising thing was, he actually wanted to tell her everything that had happened since the episode in The Study last Thursday — even though he didn't expect for one moment that she would have any insight to offer. In fact, he didn't want to hear from her at all; he just wanted a pair of ears that were willing to listen to him speak about his feelings, just his feelings, all the pettiness and impatience that none of their friends would want to hear about. No comment expected, thank you very much, just let me shit all over you for a bit and don't expect me to return the favour for you because I really don't have time for it.

Sometimes, it was really hard not to hate himself, even though it was strictly against his policy.

At the end of class he got up, determined to get out of there as quickly as possible. Winona started to suggest something, an invitation no doubt, and he just shook his head. "Sorry," he added. "I have two more classes today, remember?"

"I know that, I was thinking after you were done. Did you get my message last night?"

"Oh...no, sorry."

Against his hip, his cell phone started to vibrate. "I've gotta run," he said, and did. He hurried out of the lecture hall, finding a place in the hall outside that was reasonably private to take the call.

He was expecting it to be Casey, but it was Sasha: "Talk to me, Zeke."

"What?"

"Tell me something. I'm begging you."

Zeke turned in towards the wall, muttered, "Casey's pissed at me."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"Is he okay?"

"He's fine — well, relatively speaking. He's in the shower. I need someone to give me some information before I go mad, and if I go mad, you won't be far behind."

"What did he say to you?"

"Not a fucking thing. That's why I'm asking you."

"Don't hate me for saying this, but there's nothing you can do."

"Fuck that! I'm not going to sit around on my ass while my friends are self- destructing."

"We're not self-destructing, we're just having a disagreement."

"A disagreement."

"Yeah. We'll sort it out." And obviously, Casey had chosen not to tell Sasha about it so Zeke was not going to risk angering him any further. Not that he especially wanted to talk about things that were too complicated to even begin to explain, and painfully private, too. He could not see himself saying out loud, to Sasha of all people, Okay, Casey thinks his biggest problem is that he faced down an alien queen once while I'm terrified because he keeps trying to make me over in Roy's image when we have sex, and then once he has what he wants, he goes catatonic.

Naturally, Sasha was still talking, still trying. "You're killing me, Zeke. I get home last night, and by the way, Jerry wasn't exactly jumping for joy about me having to go home to check up on you two after he made me a nice romantic dinner — "

"You didn't have to."

"Yeah, whatever. I get home and there's Casey drugged up on the couch, and now you're telling me it's just a disagreement."

"That's right."

"Okay, well...Does being in separate rooms strike you as a good way to sort things out?"

"I meant to talk to him, I just fell asleep. I was tired, so sue me."

Sasha was quiet for a second. Then he said, "Can you at least tell me how it went with Dr. Yves?"

Zeke sighed. "It was...interesting. " His memory alerted him to a task left incomplete and he added, "Um, Sasha? Actually, there is something you could do."

"What's that?"

"Ask Casey to phone Yves. She wants to talk to him before the long weekend, she asked me to — to remind him."

"All right," Sasha replied tightly. "I'll be your message boy, but only because it's important."

"Thank you."

"You boys are making me feel very old, I hope you know."

Zeke didn't know what to say to that. He was feeling old himself. "I just think you shouldn't have to get so involved like you were before," he suggested.

"But it's not exactly optional for me — !" Sasha's voice broke off on the last word. When he spoke next, it was hushed; Casey must have been out of the shower. "Gotta go."

The click cut Zeke's tenuous connection to home, and he had nothing else to do but finish his day; it wasn't like he felt an urge to skip his classes so he could rush home to confront Casey. It made him laugh to himself at how changed he was, that he was thinking about how he was safe from Casey at school. Zeke Tyler, safe at school, and from a science geek — the world was turned on its head.

It wasn't that he was afraid, not at all. He was anxious to get back in sync with Casey, but knowing how angry Casey felt towards him yesterday and how much more anger Casey was allowing himself to feel in general, Zeke had every reason to expect incoherence, tantrums and quakes of the sort that would make the breakdown in the desert seem like a minor disturbance.

Later that afternoon when he did step in the doorway to their apartment, he was bracing himself for emotional violence, not exactly ready to receive it but ready to endure it. But Casey was very successfully practicing avoidance on the couch; he was asleep once again, with a pile of movie rentals on the table in front of him.

Zeke made himself a pot of coffee and something to eat. He was determined to stay awake until Casey woke up, and then to have words with him. In the meantime, he got the World Religions paper more or less finished. He printed the draft of the paper, just in case Casey might ever be in a frame of mind to do the editing that he had promised, and delved into the next assignment. There was really no other way to tackle the work than to put his head down and take these things one at a time.

At some point he heard a movie start up, and his stomach started to churn. He let himself dither for no more than ten minutes before heading out to the living room.

He sat down on the chair adjacent to the couch where he could have brushed knees with Casey if he wanted, and turned on the lamp nearest to him. He saw Casey's breathing hitch and increase in speed, his hand clutching the remote tightly while he stared resolutely forward.

"Casey."

Sure, like that was going to work.

"Casey, can I talk to you?"

With noticeable shaking in his hands, Casey pressed pause on the movie. Zeke glanced at the still image on the screen, curious about what Casey liked to watch when he was pissed off. There was a desert, and he thought he recognized Kevin Bacon but he didn't know the movie.

"What are you watching?" he asked.

"Tremors."

"I've never seen it."

Casey gave him a look that was almost scornful.

Faltering, Zeke said the first thing that he could think of to say: "Did Sasha mention about Dr. Yves — "

"I called her. Went to see her this afternoon."

"Oh. Good." Casey's mouth thinned into something unpleasant, and terror suddenly got hold of Zeke. He blurted, "What did you tell her?"

"Nothing," Casey said quickly. Abruptly, his eyes were on Zeke, pleading for something. "I didn't say anything — "

"Okay." Zeke put a hand on Casey's knee. Casey jerked in reaction and Zeke moved his hand. "I believe you."

He closed his eyes and rubbed them, wishing he could erase the last minute or so, and while he was at it, he wished that he could stop getting fucked over by his own emotions. He didn't know how or when he'd come to be so fearful, he only knew that it wouldn't be like this if he didn't care so much. Caring was the fucking problem. Before, when he didn't give a damn about anything, he could count on himself to think before he spoke.

Casey said, almost whispering, "I'd like to watch my movie."

"Okay...I'm s — "

He stopped himself, unable to finish that apology because he knew he didn't mean it. Really, he didn't. He wasn't sorry for thinking he was right about certain things, he was only sorry for his methods.

He couldn't be sitting anymore; he rose to his feet. Casey's eyes followed him up.

"I mean...thank you," he finished.

 

"Zeke? Do you want to tell us what you're thankful for?"

To Casey, Zeke's expression said he'd just as soon have danced the tango with his mother as answer Charly's question. His eyes were narrowed and pointedly calm, calculating and deadly — altogether, a powerful demonstration that this was a person not to be fucked around with. Casey was accustomed to both fearing and admiring that look, but Charly appeared unaffected by it.

Maybe Zeke wasn't as dangerous as usual today, it was hard for Casey to say because his exhaustion was both helping and hindering him. Ever since they had arrived here, Casey had been watching Zeke steadily, or trying to; the absence of sleep had infected his eyes so that everything he saw was surrounded by a hazy sort of unreality. He knew he was awake because his eyes were open but he felt quite certain that he was dreaming at the same time. That haze made it all too easy to detach his brain and enter a meditative state with Zeke as his focus, yet at the same time there was a blank quiet lurking nearby, ready to come forward and swallow him in an instant. He kept blinking it away and discovering that he hadn't been seeing what his eyes were pointed at.

Stokely had been alarmed by his appearance and let him know about it. Earlier, when they sat down in that TV room she had said to him, under the cover of histrionic football announcers and cheering crowds, "You look like crap, you know that?"

Yeah, he had some idea. Sasha had already "convinced" him to call Dr. Chakri's office first thing tomorrow; the convincing consisted of Sasha threatening to call and make the appointment for him if he didn't do it on his own. Casey was supposed to see the doctor in a few weeks but that wasn't soon enough for Sasha. Sasha held himself responsible for Casey's general well-being, Casey knew that and he wished that he was better at hiding his problems at least, since he couldn't seem to fix them. He was starting to think he was that black hole again, that thing that sucked in all light and matter within a certain space. At a certain proximity, there was no escape from him and he would get Stokely too if she wasn't careful.

"Just tired," he'd muttered, trying for a smile.

"Case..." Stokely had said. She'd bitten her lip, then continued, "You know you shouldn't be nervous about being here, right? You know Charly won't hurt you."

He had almost laughed at that, he was so far from being scared of Charly these days. In fact, he had realized that he no longer had the energy to invest in treating Charly as an enemy. Charly already knew stuff about them; whatever she might do to them, she could do whether they approved of it or not.

Besides which, Charly had a very pleasant home and the scent of dinner wafting throughout the house had been thoroughly enticing. And Casey was hungry; he'd not been eating a lot the last few days despite Sasha's and Zeke's best efforts. He was afraid that Dr. Chakri was going to give him major grief but what the fuck did it matter? He could eat turkey and mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie until he was ready to explode and still he'd be empty.

"I'm not nervous," he had said, to which Stokely raised her eyebrows.

He wasn't offended by that. She couldn't really be blamed for thinking he was a space cadet, complete with the striped jumpsuit and the communicator badge. After all, she'd had the pleasure of watching him rant about Winona, her eyes getting bigger and bigger the whole time, spelling it out. Of course, she didn't know, she wasn't fully cognizant of the threat that he was dealing with. There was a monster stalking him, stalking his boyfriend and stalking him at the same time. Maybe that was a crazy thought — okay, it was a crazy thought but maybe not so crazy when he could feel the presence of her all around him. He couldn't breathe for sensing her and not even a double handful of scat pens could do the trick this time —

Only the timely intervention of Charly calling them in for Thanksgiving dinner had saved him from running from the room or making some other sort of pitiful exhibition of himself.

They all sat down in the dining room and everything looked and smelled wonderful, except now Charly was going around the table, making them earn their food. She was torturing Zeke right now but Casey knew that sooner or later she'd get back to him. It was distressing to think that people could see him even while he was disappearing — and he was disappearing, really, it was a tangible, physical sensation of hollowness, of not being in the space that visual input told him he was in. He could almost feel the substance of his body dissolving, floating away so that the occasional sound of the voice that he knew was supposed to be him could make him panic. It was a distracting incongruity to be unreal and still hear yourself talk.

But it had a simple fix. All he needed was for Zeke to see him, shut off the valve in his head that was letting the crazy thoughts pour in. His body was disappearing because it was in withdrawal. The first night without Zeke had been merely unbearable...now, three days later he could barely think for needing and he knew Zeke needed him too, Zeke's eyes were constantly on him, wanting him. Not that Zeke was going to do anything, it would be up to Casey to come to Zeke...so all right, fine, he'd been here before. He could be as bold as he needed to be.

"To begin with," Zeke said. "I've never really done holidays so I suppose I'm thankful to be having Thanksgiving at all." He inclined his head to Charly and she returned the gesture, the two of them continuing the dance they'd been doing for the past two hours. Challenge, retreat, counter-challenge, evasion...thrustparrythrustparry, it was making Casey's head hurt.

"So I am grateful for the invitation. And..." Finally, Zeke's gaze moved in Casey's direction. Casey felt himself getting sucked down and in, completely encompassed. He wondered how it would look if he suddenly flung himself across the table into Zeke's lap but of course he couldn't do that, it was foolish and if there was one thing Zeke couldn't stand, it was looking foolish. "I'm grateful," Zeke said, his gaze continuing on to Charly, "For not being in Herrington anymore."

Meaning Thank you in advance for keeping your mouth shut, Charly, and I'm thanking you too, Casey, for keeping your mouth shut in general even if it does mean that therapy will never work for you and you'll be doomed to be this way forever thank you for understanding me, Casey and figuring out a way to make this work, you with your wonderful but sickly brain...you need me don't you we'll get that fixed up for you I'll take care of you I'll take you...

Casey pinched his own thigh as hard as he could. He would have pounded it but someone would undoubtedly notice. In any case, the pain felt good — bright, sharp and real.

He heard a cough...that was Stokely, he thought. "Pretty heavy for you, Zeke," she remarked.

Sasha exclaimed, "It's not fair! I tried to keep it light, you know."

"It wasn't all that heavy," Zeke retorted.

"And Stan, how about you?" Charly said.

Beside Zeke, Stan shrugged and made uncomfortable guy faces. "I'm thankful for my family and friends..." He seemed to be looking directly at Stokely now, and she blushed. "And old friends moved here recently and I'm grateful for that...seeing as I can now beat Zeke's ass in squash every week."

"You can try," Zeke said.

Stan snorted. "Huh. Until you stop polluting your lungs with tar, I won't be trying very hard."

"Oh, amen," Sasha declared.

"What, are we suddenly making a commercial?" Zeke growled. "Just lay off, all of you, I'll quit when I'm fucking ready."

In the quiet following that outburst, Casey could see a space growing around Zeke, like everyone else was subtly shifting to isolate Zeke in that location nearest to the stuffing and the gravy boat and Zeke wasn't seeing that Casey wanted to support him, care for him, kiss and make up and fall into his arms...suddenly, Casey couldn't bear that Zeke didn't know.

"You can't convince someone to quit," he heard someone say. It was his voice, coming louder than he would have wanted. He toned it down and went on. "They have to choose to do it — anyway, I like Zeke the way he is." He caught Zeke's eye at last and said, very softly and just for Zeke, "Sometimes he has to be the bad guy but that's okay."

Now there was a thunderstruck silence at the table and for several suspended moments Zeke stared at Casey in a way that made him sweat and tremble in expectation.

Stokely busted into their little moment with, "Hey, I told Casey he should try squash sometime." She nudged Casey with her elbow.

Stan turned a dubious expression to him. "Um...I'll play with you, Case," he said willingly, earning himself a grin of approbation from Stokely. "Anytime you want, just let me know."

Casey forced his head to go in Stan's direction. "Oh — okay." It made for quite a picture — himself and Stan, locked in a tiny room without windows. If they were playing squash, though, they wouldn't have to do a lot of talking.

"So, Casey," Charly said. "We haven't heard from you yet."

"Maybe he doesn't want to say anything," Zeke growled.

"And that's fine," Charly returned easily. "It's not required, Casey, but...did you want to say what you're thankful for?"

 

"Louis...I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

There were still many hours left in the day and Sasha wasn't home yet. Not like that was surprising, it was just getting to be near suppertime now and Jerry had said he was cooking a special meal. It would be a long time before Sasha was home.

Casey let the credits blur as they rolled; if nothing else he would appear to be completely absorbed in them should Zeke come out here. Yes, if Zeke emerged from the bedroom where he had been holed up on the pretext of working on school papers, then Casey must be immersed in who was the lead hand or the chief electrician, which actors had played Prosperous Man and Singer with Guitar. He must not be sitting here trying to imagine what Zeke was thinking moment by moment, or how Zeke might respond if Casey were to appear in his doorway.

In truth, for the first hour of the movie Casey hadn't cared what Zeke was thinking or doing in the least. He did not want to see Zeke's face. He was afraid that if he did he would do something...unrecoverable. He might start howling, not out of anger really but out of horror at himself for still wanting those hands on him even while that last, unkind touch was still imprinted on his arms. No, especially because of wanting that touch and if Zeke wouldn't touch him he would make sure he did. As far as he was concerned he had accepted an offer from Zeke and they had reached an understanding: If he obeyed, he would not be deprived, he would not be left alone.

The urge to wail passed; the horror passed, diluted by the knowledge that he didn't give a damn about self-respect — except he had no choice but to care if the result of his disrespect to himself was that Zeke could never respect him again but if Zeke wanted him to have self-respect then why was he doing this, what was the purpose of Zeke staying in that room if not that he was waiting for Casey to break and come to him?

But that was what Zeke did. It was what Roy did. They waited, they knew Casey needed them so they waited and eventually Casey broke and they got to keep their dignity didn't they, they got to be the strong ones.

He was not angry about that, he must not be angry as a matter of sheer practicality. Anger didn't work out, whatever Yves might have to say about it. It was a whole lot of risk for something that would inflame him briefly and then extinguish itself, leaving him to face the ashes. Anyway, if he didn't get angry he would be better able to understand Zeke's side. It was incumbent upon him to understand how Zeke had been driven to do something terrible because of him and so he must not be angry, he must not go in that room and order Zeke to fuck him raw even thought he was goddamned fucking entitled to it...but he could go in there and...not beg, Zeke wouldn't like that. Just be there, be available. Give him a kiss, a touch, let him know that he was not angry anymore...

He couldn't do that. Zeke would despise him. And better that Zeke did not come to him, if Zeke came out here and Casey did so much as look at him he would crumble and then again Zeke would despise him, and Sasha would despise him too when he found out.

If only Sasha would come home. Casey knew that Sasha would come home instantly if he phoned and asked him to, but then there would be no special dinner that Jerry had been talking about and Casey would be wrecking someone else's life. And of course Sasha would want to know what had happened, Sasha would keep asking until he found out. Sasha always found out when he wanted to find out and he would...he would ask questions like he did before and say things like, no, I think you need to keep going to see that shrink, kitten, and Zeke's right, you should tell her everything that happened last summer. Never mind those silly aliens.

There was a stab of pain, and he realized that he had chewed his thumbnail down to the quick. It was bleeding. The screen before him was dark, the credits played out and it was almost completely silent in the apartment. Far off in the distance he could hear Zeke's fingers on the computer keyboard.

He hurried to get up and switch the disc to The Philadelphia Story. He wouldn't admit it to anyone, but he was getting to the point that he really couldn't watch that movie too many more times lest he ruin it for himself. He needed to take a break from it — but he had no choice, unless he wanted to go out to Anton's right now, and Zeke would never let him out the door without some conversation. The thought of talking to Zeke right now was making him hyperventilate so no, going to rent a movie was not an option. Then there was that book of Stokely's that he was still chipping away at, but he didn't think he could concentrate well enough right now to read so that was out too.

What if Zeke did come out here right now, summoned by the sounds of him moving around? He would let him touch him any way he wanted, Zeke could spread him out on the bed and...and he would welcome it, he would —

A noise made him jump. He scurried back to the couch, trembling, waiting for Zeke to appear around the corner — and he had to laugh at himself, giving a derisive snort at the thought of himself shivering in terror like the stupid expendable blond in a horror flick, sobbing and screaming and not even able to run away without falling down. Except her problem was she wanted the monster to catch her all along, wasn't it? At some point she was hypnotized by her own death and just lay there waiting for it.

He pulled in his limbs and pressed play. After interminable seconds, the Paramount theme began to blare and he began to feel a little safer. He got lost in playing voyeur to a world that he could actually understand.

Eventually, something made him look elsewhere, at a figment of Zeke that was standing right there in front of him. "Food," it said.

It didn't admit of the concept of a request. It required, and therefore it had to be the real Zeke. A feeling started to burn in Casey's chest. Oh, right, he knew that one. Resentment — no, he did not feel it, Casey didn't mind, he didn't care that Zeke wanted to take care of him see he would obey, he would follow orders if Zeke would just...just...

"Are you going to eat it?"

Casey shrugged. If he opened his mouth a long stream of pleading words would come from him, he would fall into Zeke or at him and Zeke would be disgusted with him because didn't he know he was supposed to be angry right now?

"It's your favourite," Zeke said, so softly, with a note of something that made Casey look more closely at him. There were lines of pain and emotion around Zeke's eyes and mouth. He must have a head ache again. He must want Casey to forgive him.

Casey was on the brink of saying it: It's okay it's okay you can do what you like say what you like and it's okay with me just hold me, take me that's all I want when Zeke's expression tightened and he said, "Eat it. Please."

Because Zeke didn't expect to be forgiven. He expected each of them to act with integrity, like whole beings who got angry when it was appropriate to be angry. He wanted that minimal demonstration from Casey so that when Casey actually did submit like Zeke fully expected him to do, it would seem to be a conscious choice based on the apprehension of Zeke's superior logic.

"Okay," Casey said.

Now Zeke was leaving. Casey held onto himself and ground his teeth together to keep from calling after him, begging him to come back. He cast his gaze at the TV screen, at Kate and Jimmy and Cary, but they had nothing for him today. He could feel himself freezing over, the world shrinking...he needed, oh god he needed it so bad, needed...

Xanax.

Oh god, oh fuck, yes, Xanax. It took him a few minutes to be able to move but at least he didn't have to go in the bathroom to the main pill bottle; there was the little candy tin in his jacket pocket, by the door. He moved trying not to make a sound, listening and ready to dampen it the second it could be heard.

Water.

Pill down the hatch.

Rescue coming.

He went back to the couch, wishing without hope for a blanket or his afghan, something to warm him. Lying down on his side, he caught sight of the sandwich that Zeke had left for him. He had better eat that before he fell asleep, he had agreed to it after all.

The white bread stuck to the back of his palate like glue and the mayonnaise tasted like nothing so much as raw egg. He gave up after half. The juice, at least, went down easily and then he lay on his side and waited for oblivion to take him, staring at his pals on the screen. Kate was so pretty but so strong, so mannish sometimes and so sublimely self-contained...Jimmy also very pretty, young, tall and thin, a whisp of a man. And Cary, what to say of Cary...

"...kitten?"

There was light in his eyes. He struggled up just so he could get a hand between it and his face. "Too bright," he groaned.

"Sorry...I couldn't see."

Sasha was sitting very near to him, on the edge of the couch. Casey opened his eyes long enough to ascertain that fact and then closed them again.

"Hey, sleepy, how about you get up and go to bed?"

Casey nodded muzzily — but there was something wrong with that idea. Going to bed sounded good....going to bed...going to bed with Zeke...no. "Sleep with you?" he mumbled. "Please?"

There was a pause.

"Sure, if you want to," Sasha said.

There was tugging. He went with it, and was soon installed in a much better, warmer place. He sank down into it and the last thing he heard was Sasha muttering something nearby.

When he woke up the next morning it was around ten and he was alone. "Hey," Sasha greeted him when he stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing a thick crust of sleep from his eyes.

"Morning," Casey replied, briefly checking the landing for Zeke's shoes. It was a silly thing to do; of course Zeke was at school. Or he wasn't. In either case his shoes wouldn't be there so checking for them was silly because if they were there everything was wonderful and if they weren't there the worst could already have happened without him knowing. Zeke's shoes or the absence of Zeke's shoes would tell him nothing.

"Can I get you some breakfast?" Sasha asked.

"No, thanks." Casey noted the half-full pot of coffee, the mug that Sasha was sporting in his left hand. "How about a cup of coffee?"

"Kitten..."

"Sasha, a shot of caffeine's not going to kill me."

Sasha lifted his hands up and said, "It's your body, kitten, you do what you like."

Casey ground his teeth a bit, and gave up. He started to angle away, saying, "going to shower," but only got as far as fifteen or twenty degrees of a full turn before Sasha's voice stopped him.

"Casey."

"Yeah?"

"How'd it go yesterday?"

Casey considered a number of possible responses, then said, honestly, "I'd rather not talk about it."

True to form, Sasha didn't hear that answer. "Are you and Zeke not speaking to each other? What's going on?"

"Sasha..." Casey didn't think he had intended to whine. He had wanted to sound firm and resolute, but...oh, well, probably too much to expect of a person without any self-dignity.

"You say you don't want to talk about it, okay...but sooner or later I will have to butt in, Casey, whether you guys want me to or not. Now, wouldn't you much rather I was an informed busybody?"

Unable to stay entirely still, Casey began rocking nervously against the nearest wall. "I'd...t-tell you if I could," he said.

"Kitten...would you look at me?"

That was the I'm-Gonna-Make-A-Statement voice. Casey struggled to meet Sasha's eyes and could only manage it for moments here and there.

Either he looked completely pitiful or Sasha decided there was no point in saying it. "Nothing. Go have your shower, kitten."

Casey nodded and resumed his journey towards the bathroom.

He stripped and got into the tub and almost immediately his mind spun towards the void; he clawed his way back, increasing the hot water until it was almost scalding. Memory beckoned and he clung to that, thinking of the numerous times that he and Zeke had been in the shower together. Touching, caressing...cleansing Zeke's skin, being touched, being on his knees, his mouth around Zeke's hot length...or being taken, possessed entirely, no him anymore, just peace. He could not lose that or he would go mad...more mad...Zeke just didn't understand, he didn't have the ability to comprehend a thing like that with his self-sufficient, disciplined mind, and so naturally he got hung up on thinking it was wrong but it didn't have to be wrong. When Zeke came home Casey would tell him, he would show him how right it could be.

A fresh set of alarms blared in his head when he got back to the kitchen; Sasha was sitting at the table, his posture very straight, with eyes both maniacal and determined. "I was just talking to Zeke," he said.

Casey's heart started to throb like it was going to explode. "Oh, yeah?"

"He asked me to tell you that Dr. Yves wants you to call her as soon as possible."

"Kay," he said, trying to sound casual.

"And I insist that you tell me something."

"What...what did Zeke say?"

"Nothing at all."

"Then I...don't think I should..."

Sasha didn't roar. He didn't yell, or even speak, but his eyes started to glisten and Casey immediately felt his own tears approaching. This was just like when his mother cried. It always got to him, it was pure action and reaction. "I'm sorry," he muttered, getting ready to flee.

"No." Sasha raised a hand. "I'm sorry. It's your prerogative, of course. And you're probably right. Actually, Jerry's been telling me I'm way too invested in your life, he says — well, never mind. I just wanted to say that you can tell me anything, kitten. I promise I won't judge, I won't yell at you, I'll just try to help you solve what needs solving. Okay?"

Casey didn't want to say anything, for fear that he might reactivate Sasha's curiosity. He ventured, "Okay."

Sasha smiled broadly. "You going to make that phone call now?"

Obedient as always, Casey took the handset into the bedroom. Sasha knew him too well; Sasha wasn't going to satisfy himself with just delivering the message and trusting Casey. Good for Sasha — because Casey would never have called Yves otherwise.

At least Sasha couldn't keep him from a little procrastination. He would check his email first.

There was a message from his father: I was wondering if you had made a decision yet about school. Not to put any pressure on you, it just occurred to me that if you were going, it's getting late to do the paperwork. Let us know, all right?

He could have killed a lot more time writing a reply; in fact, he started six or seven times before he gave up and reconciled himself to the fact that this was going to require a phone call, and as phone calls went, the Helen Yves call was probably going to be less of an ordeal than the Frank Connor call. He dug up his shrink's phone number — it was scribbled on one of the pages in his anxiety workbook — and then sat staring at it for half an hour, trying to work up the will to dial the numbers. Finally he just made himself do it, praying that he would get her answering machine.

"Helen Yves."

No such luck.

"Hello, it's — it's Casey...Connor."

"Hello, Casey. How are you doing?"

"I'm fine," he said tightly, his hands absolutely quivering — with rage, he realized. Her voice had made yesterday's rage into today's. Of course, it hadn't really been her. She had been just doing her job, unlike some other people in the room.

"I'm relieved to hear it. I was a little concerned given the way yesterday's session ended. I'd like to talk to you about it, I think it would be helpful. Do you think you can come to see me today or tomorrow?"

"Not Thursday?"

"It's Thanksgiving, remember?"

"Oh. What about Friday?"

"I'm going to be unavailable from Thursday until Sunday."

"Next week, then."

"I think sooner would be better, don't you?"

He assumed that she didn't want an honest answer to that. "Yeah," he said.

"So," she pressed. "Today or tomorrow?"

"Today," he whispered.

"I have a slot at three."

He was supposed to be at relaxation at one, as per usual. Theoretically, there were no scheduling conflicts. "Fine," he agreed.

"Very good, I'll put you down for three. And Casey?"

"Yes?"

"There's no retaliation here, remember? We're just going to talk."

"I know."

"I'm looking forward to seeing you."

Even as he hung up, he knew he was not going to show. He had the feeling that she knew it too.

He couldn't bear to watch The Philadelphia Story or Casablanca again, so he watched game shows until it was time to leave for relaxation. He made a point of telling Sasha that he had a therapy appointment and wouldn't get home until after and he was lying twice over when he said that, because he wasn't going to attend relaxation either. He let Sasha drive him to the Powell Relaxation Clinic and he went in but once again he didn't go any further than the stairwell.

As he was walking home, the idea came to him: He should go to the university and find Zeke. Not to bother him, just to watch him...

He was losing it. He needed to think about something else.

That need drew him unerringly to Anton's place; he spent a solid half an hour there, roaming up and down the aisles. For most of the time, he was the only person there aside from Anton, who knew better by now than to try and make conversation with him when he was on the movie hunt.

He decided to go with a cheesy monster theme; it was always satisfying to see the least likely character prevail over the monster in the end. It would have been nice if the monsters in his life weren't always in disguise. In the movies that he liked, the monster might sneak up on you but it was the kind that always only looked like a monster...unlike the monster that was hunting him now...see, that was why it would be good to go to the university and find Zeke. To know that he was doing only school-related things with Winona...or if he wasn't, Casey would finally see for himself and he would do whatever it took to get rid of her except he really dreaded the prospect of getting there on the bus and what did it mean when the worst sort of Fatal Attraction stuff started to make perfect sense in your head...

He felt his heart skip and realized that he was wheezing. He had to get out of here.

Anton looked alarmed when he presented himself at the counter with his movies and he was gasping for breath. "Okay there, kid?"

He nodded. "Just...need to get...home..."

Anton's eyes widened and he gesticulated at Casey with both hands. "Take the movies, kid, I know you'll bring them back. We'll settle up later."

"Thanks..."

Cradling the movies in his arms like they were his children, he raced home. The first thing he did after dropping the DVD's on the kitchen table was run to the bathroom and shove one of his pills down his throat, and even though he was alone in the apartment, he shut the bathroom door and locked it. He stayed in there, pacing back and forth and counting to himself until he felt somewhat calmer, calm enough to unlock the door and bring his movie catch to the living room. Not fifteen minutes into Tremors he discovered that his eyes had gotten to heavy to hold open; he stopped the DVD and got comfortable for his impending oblivion.

When he woke from that drug-fuelled sleep, it was evening and Zeke was home, clacking away in the bedroom. Casey lay quietly for a while, not wanting to do anything that would alert Zeke to the fact that he was awake. Ultimately, though, he needed his diversion more desperately than he needed to hide, so he resumed watching the movie. Inevitably, it drew Zeke out of the bedroom.

Of course Zeke asked him about therapy, and of course he lied. When Zeke wanted to know what Casey had said, if he had broken any of the conditions, Casey did toy for a few seconds with the reply, No, I didn't tell her anything because I didn't go to see her...It was right on the tip of his tongue in fact but when he opened his mouth out came the lie.

Well, he was a liar, and Zeke knew it, too — or he had known it, but Casey had gradually worn away that knowledge until Zeke actually believed him most of the time and as much as Casey wanted to make amends with Zeke and be with him, he couldn't stand to be in Zeke's presence. Zeke was looking at him like he was someone who could be trusted and he didn't deserve to be looked at that way so he asked Zeke to go away. He finished watching Tremors and a while later, Jaws, and then, around four in the morning, he gave up on natural sleep and took another Xanax.

Wednesday was pretty much the same except that night he was determined not self-medicate, with the result that he never did get to sleep. He stayed up all night thinking about Zeke with his long, smooth body stretched out in that comfortable bed, while his own body ached from acute Zeke-deficiency. Fucking self-respect, this was all its fault. He didn't actually have any of the stuff, he didn't want any of it. However he had gotten here, this was him. He was as he was.

He knew what beautiful really was now. It was surrender to a thing, just a thing that was simple and complete in itself and nothing more. Only he could know that, though, because to Zeke, to Sasha and Dr. Yves, a thing had to be bad or good, right or wrong. Casey knew he could have beautiful if he asked for it, he just had to be prepared to take judgment along with it.

 

Zeke had just given up on ever hearing Casey's voice again when he answered, "I'm thankful for Xanax."

There was gentle laughter from the group, excluding Charly who perhaps didn't know what the Xanax reference was about or thought she wasn't intimate enough with him to laugh at the joke. Zeke dared a chuckle since it seemed reasonably probable that Casey had intended to be funny — and Casey's comment a few minutes ago had given him hope that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't the bad guy anymore. He'd heard those gorgeous, beneficient words...sometimes Zeke has to be the bad guy but that's okay... and looked and there, right across the table was his Casey, the one with the accommodating eyes and acts of undeserved generosity.

"Okay, I'll go now," Charly said when the laughter had faded. "And I'll make it quick so we can get down to business here. I'm thankful to be in the company of these five young people, that you were willing to come to my house and eat food cooked by me and I'm especially grateful that you are all doing well and have bright futures...especially when I think of what some of you have survived together."

Zeke's head snapped in her direction and the warmth he had been feeling just moments ago shrivelled. He simply couldn't believe Charly's brazenness, especially after he had warned her in the plainest, most direct language he could devise — and especially after he had decided to come here and act as if this were a simple invitation to a turkey dinner. He began to compose a retort to her comment and abandoned it upon seeing Stokely's pleading look. Stan was frowning disapproval at his aunt already; that would have to do.

Charly smiled. "Dig in, everybody." She picked up the platter of meat before her and sent it on its way around the table.

Zeke wondered if eating her food now would compromise his integrity, but only briefly. For one thing he was starving, and for another, Casey seemed not to have heard Charly's shit-disturbing comment. Content that his principles were not being compromised, Zeke took a helping of everything that passed his way and ignored Charly. His highly-tuned radar would be dedicated to a higher purpose — as in, watching what Casey ate. Zeke was well aware that Casey had not consumed much except prescription drugs over the last few days.

He was prepared to give Casey some grief about how much he ate, right here in front of everyone if necessary. As it turned out, Casey was acting like he might just be hungry too, filling his plate with turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, salad and bread — and then, unexpectedly, he found some kind of casserole that looked like orange mush studded with marshmallows. He pushed everything as far as he could onto the margins of his plate and began mounding on that goo.

"Whoa," Stan said, watching him. "I guess you like those."

"They look like my mom's," Casey said, dipping a finger in the syrupy juice and tasting. The expression on his face was the most untroubled Zeke had seen in weeks, possibly months. "Actually, I think these are my mom's."

Charly confessed, "I mentioned to your mom that you were coming for dinner...She emailed the recipe to me."

It seemed to be of no concern to Casey that Charly and his mom were having regular communication, so Zeke wasn't going to let that perturb him, especially when it led to this kind of positive outcome. Casey had taken the first bite, his eyes closing for a few seconds. When he opened them, he saw that everyone was watching him have oral sex with his potatoes. "I haven't had these for..." he paused to swallow, memories ticking away behind his eyes "...a while," he finished. "Thank you."

"Nothing to it," Charly said. "It was your mom's idea anyway."

Casey actually smiled at her, and set to eating with something close to joyful abandon. Sasha gaped, open-mouthed, and Zeke could scarcely do less himself. It was inconceivable that a person could be as socially and emotionally challenged as Casey had been acting the last few days and still approach a thing like sweet potatoes with such straightforward enjoyment.

"So," Charly asked as she poured gravy over everything on her plate. "What have you boys been up to?"

Casey glanced at Sasha, who looked at Zeke, who was just getting started on his food. He had to pause with his fork half-raised, mashed potatoes half-way to his mouth. "Not too much," he answered. "Going to school. Hanging out."

"Casey? How about you?"

"Um...I was..." Casey tore himself away from his casserole with difficulty. "...thinking about school."

"Oh, yes?" Charly looked interested.

Casey was visibly reluctant, but he added for her benefit, "My parents want me to...to go back."

"In January, you mean?"

"Yeah."

"Do you think you will?"

Inadvertently, Zeke made a sound; Casey's eyes darted in his direction. Perhaps it was rude, but Casey had to be aware and to appreciate Zeke's displeasure at this line of conversation. Zeke knew that Casey had yet to break the news to his parents about his wish to change majors, and no one could expect the response to be a good one. He was fully prepared to support Casey in any way he needed but in his personal view Casey was nowhere near ready to be at school. He had improved in all sorts of ways, but he still took trips to bizarro-ville on a regular basis. And then there was the fact that Casey seemed more willing to talk to Charlotte Just-Blurt-Out-Whatever's-On-Your-Mind Rosado than to Zeke about all of this --- no, Zeke was not comfortable at all.

"I think you should do it," Stokely opined freely.

Casey hunched his shoulders. "I don't know," he said.

Stokely pressed, "But you're so smart, Casey, you should — "

"You don't know what you're talking about, Stokely," Zeke interrupted.

"Are you saying Casey isn't smart?"

"No, of course I'm not saying that but how about you give it up for now?"

"Why, because you don't want to talk about it? It's Casey's life."

"Children, children," Sasha intervened. "Can we not argue at the dinner table? It's rude to our hostess, not to mention it's making my head hurt."

Stokely opened her mouth to argue, then said, "Right. Sorry, Charly. Sorry, Case." She winced apologetically in Casey's direction, fired off a salvo of mega-bitch at Zeke and returned to her tofu.

Stan took that moment to announce, "I'm going to take a journalism course in the fall."

Charly nodded approvingly and Stokely grinned at Stan. "You signed up? That's excellent, Stan." She mucked with her tofu. "Maybe it's time for me to think about applying for school too." She gazed around the table, self-consciously. "Wouldn't that be funny, though? The old team back together?"

"Minus Delilah," Stan noted.

"No loss," Stokely finished smoothly, eliciting a chuckle from Stan.

"She could be a real...piece of work," he agreed.

"She has her moments though," Zeke declared. To his satisfaction, Stan looked a little shame-faced.

"I take it the five of you never bonded entirely," Charly remarked.

That was almost but not quite crossing the line. Zeke turned his scariest look on her but it had no effect. He then turned to Casey, to reassure him — but Casey didn't look to be in need of reassurance. Indeed, Casey didn't seem to care.

Well, of course he didn't. That was his passive way of getting revenge on Zeke, not caring what Charly said or did, smiling at her, talking to her when he'd barely talked to Zeke for three days, taunting Zeke with the prospect of new mayhem ...Hey, what if I told her...what if I just told her...? Sure, it was a good idea if you were so far removed from the social compact that your continued viability as a member of the human race barely mattered to you — except it would fucking well matter when they dragged Casey off to the nuthouse, he would be clinging to Zeke then, wouldn't he, and he'd be talking to Zeke too, begging Zeke to rescue him.

"No," Stokely said, briefly. "We still kept to our little cliques, right, Zeke?"

"Whatever," he snapped.

"Delilah sure did."

"I don't know about that."

"Oh, come on! There was that short blip where she decided it would be fun to string Casey along for a while, but then she was back to her old ways."

Charly said, "I'm sure that she just wanted to believe that nothing happened, Stokely. Like a lot of people. It's a very human reaction."

She might have been making an effort to placate Stokely, and perhaps to bring down the level of hostility in the room, but she missed the mark big time. "I don't like this conversation," Zeke informed her.

"Me neither," Stan piped up.

To Zeke's astonishment, Charly appealed directly at Casey. "How do you feel about it, Casey?"

"Are we here to eat or not?" Zeke demanded. "I thought this was just a dinner invite — maybe I was wrong."

Charly sounded a little testy when she replied, "I only thought that Casey might have something to say."

"He doesn't," Zeke decreed, and began shovelling his food down, wondering how he could be the exact same stupid so many times in a row. He was furious at Charly, furious at Stan for being her emissary, furious at Stokely for being so blind to her manipulations, furious at Casey for showing Zeke that there was no limit to how far he would go to prove his pathological otherness...but mostly, he was furious at himself for agreeing to put himself in this situation when both instinct and reason had said it was a bad idea.

For some time they all dedicated themselves to the contents of their plates, raising and lowering their forks as though eating was a highly specialized skill that demanded all their attention. Finally, Stan made an attempt to pierce the silence.

"How's your tofu?" he asked Stokely, making a sympathetic face.

"It's good," Stokely answered all too readily. Then she grimaced and said, "Actually...it sucks."

"I followed the recipe — " Charly started with a frown.

"I know, sorry...It's really good as tofu goes, it's just...not...turkey."

"This is a special occasion," Sasha said, batting his eyes suggestively. "You could treat yourself."

"Ugh!" Stokely groaned. "Don't tempt me!"

"Sorry."

"It does smell really good though." Stokely stared longingly at the platter of meat, then glanced away. "Huh. Some vegetarian I am."

Sasha queried, "So you don't actually find meat disgusting?"

"No. I keep waiting for that point to arrive but it hasn't yet."

Stan said, "I admire it."

"What?"

"The way you make a promise and stick to it."

"It's called discipline," Charly put in.

"Yeah, discipline," Stan agreed. "I admire your discipline."

Zeke looked for Stokely's response to what was, in his ears, as blatant a case of sucking-up as he'd ever witnessed. She was smiling and blushing, alternately playing with her food and meeting Stan's eye with a sparkle of welcome. Stan grinned back and Zeke had to wonder if he and Casey ever made anyone want to puke with their little public flirtations, because he was feeling pretty nauseated right now.

"Hey, thanks, Stan," Stokely said, then changed the subject. "So like...what are we having for Zeke's birthday party?"

Sasha was caught with a mouthful of food; he took time to swallow it before answering, "I was thinking stuffed mushroom caps, wings, and my special nachos."

"Mmm...basically anything that goes with beer."

"You got it." Sasha was obviously trying to be casual as he added, "And you're going to bring a cake, right?"

"Yep."

"Did you...have anything in mind?"

Stokely laughed. "Don't look so nervous! It'll have all the bad stuff in it, I promise."

"But then you won't be able to have any," Stan said to her.

"I'll make something else for myself," Stokely replied, with a come-hither smile.

Zeke groaned, "Oh, for fuck sake why don't you two just get a room?"

"You're one to talk," Stokely retorted sweetly.

"Eat me," Zeke returned with satisfaction. Sometimes it just felt good to be infantile.

"Thanks but no thanks."

"Well," Sasha intervened loudly, "Let me help you with the dishes, Charly."

"No, you need a break from that I'm sure," Charly replied.

"Oh, no, usually I'm the one who makes them dirty so others have to wash them up." Sasha was collecting dirty plates as he spoke, scraping the bones and leftovers onto the top one and stacking the rest underneath.

"I'll help too," Casey said quietly.

"We can all help," Stokely proposed. "There's more than enough mess for all of us."

"That's hardly necessary," Charly said. She now looked amused. "We'll just be tripping over each other and I insist on being allowed to clean up my own mess." Standing up, Charly said with what appeared to be satisfaction, "You, Sasha, are forbidden to help but since you were the next to volunteer, Casey, you could..."

Zeke almost shouted — or maybe he should have shouted, maybe it would have some kind of effect on this woman since nothing else did. He wasted no time glowering at her either but quickly moved on to Casey whom he found was looking right back at him — oh, yes, that was most definitely defiance. Such a diffident, almost expressionless face had to be harboring rebellion.

"No, I'll help," Zeke growled.

He drilled into Casey with a silent command; it didn't need to be articulated. Casey promptly lowered his eyes.

Zeke turned to Charly and said, "You sit down. Watch some football."

"This is stupid," Stan said.

"Thank you for that astute observation."

Charly folded her arms. "You're a guest in my home, Zeke, you don't need to do anything."

"Then neither does Casey."

"True enough." She shrugged. "So no guests will help. That leaves you and me, Stan. Come on."

Everyone rose from the table at once, probably in a bit of a hurry to get away from it. Zeke immediately moved around to the other side of it and took up a position near Casey, fighting the urge to collect him and make a break for the exit. Charly took the large stack of dirty plates and left the room, followed closely by Stan with the large platter and gravy boat.

"Go relax in the TV room," Charly called from the kitchen. "We'll have dessert in a little while."

Zeke did then what he had been needing to do all day, and even longer than that: He grasped Casey's arm. It was the first physical contact between them in three days, apart from last night's haunting, and even though Casey was wearing two long-sleeved shirts, Zeke's body reacted. He was completely certain that he could feel Casey's skin through the layers of fabric.

He gave a gentle tug, almost expecting Casey to pull away and start yelling, but Casey came along without protest. At Zeke's direction, he went meekly into the other room and sat on a couch. Zeke sat next to him, pushing himself up close so that their arms and legs were pressed together.

Sasha and Stokely had trailed behind them. Stokely sat down on Casey's other side, leaving a slightly larger space between them than Zeke had allowed. Sasha's first act was to pick up the TV remote. He clicked on the football game and turned the volume up a couple of notches to camouflage the ass-kicking he was about to deliver. Zeke waited as graciously as he could as Sasha took a seat on the recliner nearest to him.

"That was unbelievably rude, Zeke," he said in a low tone. "This woman invited us to her home and cooked for us."

Zeke shrugged. Beside him, Casey shifted his weight. Zeke looked at him and saw him chewing on a knuckle; under Zeke's gaze, he glanced up. There was flicker of something there but Zeke couldn't decide if it was meant to be defiance or enticement. Either way it was maddening.

Sasha went on, "Zeke, you need to get your shit together, this is fucking bullshit and you can't — "

"Excuse me," Zeke interrupted. Stokely had put her hand on Casey's arm for some reason and Zeke was pretty sure he saw Casey flinch. He warned her, "Don't touch him."

With disbelieving eyes and a shocked mouth, Stokely appealed to Casey for an overrule. When none arrived, she flung herself to the other end of the couch with a noise of disgust.

Zeke put his arm around Casey's shoulders. His nerves sang, he felt like he was glowing with triumph and all the blood in him making swift retreat to his groin. He saw Casey's chest heaving slightly beside him and wondered why hadn't he taken charge and touched Casey before this when it could have made everything better already.

But Casey was moving. He was pulling away. He was standing.

"Where are you going?" Zeke demanded.

Casey flushed, looking at the floor. "To the bathroom," he said, and then went about it without waiting for permission from Zeke.

Moments later they heard Casey's feet on the stairs, which Stokely took as proof that he was out of earshot because she immediately told Zeke, "Why are you acting like...like you're fucked in the head?"

Zeke had to suppress an urge to commit a violent act. No one seemed to understand that he had legitimate worries here. He was in love with a person who was erratic and profoundly unconcerned about their own well-being, and for some reason everyone he knew had decided to not be on his side even though he was asking for nothing other than common sense. He hissed at Stokely, "I would have thought that you at least would get it."

"Get what?"

"Why it's good to be careful."

"Zeke...Everyone in this house knows about the aliens already and no one has any intention of hurting Casey — or you, although I'd kinda like to smack you upside the head right now."

"It isn't like anyone plans to hurt anyone."

Stokely went silent for a bit. Just when Zeke thought she wasn't going to respond, she agreed, "No. They don't."

She didn't seem to have any more to say. Zeke faced the TV; he watched the little men in tight pants running and colliding on the screen until Sasha said, "Can we change the channel, please?" and Zeke waved that he should watch whatever he liked because he was actually just counting time until it would be reasonable for him to go after Casey.

Ten minutes passed.

Ignoring dismayed looks from both Stokely and Sasha, Zeke went upstairs. At the end of the hall, he saw the bathroom door wide open, the room itself empty. With the growing knowledge of his soon-to-be vindication, he proceeded down the hallway. He was barely surprised when, in passing the open door of Charly's office he saw Casey standing there with Charly. Charly was leaning against her desk and handing something to Casey. Casey accepted it with perfect complaisance.

It was fucking tough being right all the time.

"What's this?" he said, with all the indignation of a jilted lover in a play, and he was almost gratified to see that Casey winced. Even Charly had the grace to look a little flustered, although she recovered her poise quickly.

"We were just talking," she said. "Well, I was talking, mostly."

Zeke came right into the room and saw what Casey was holding in his hand. It was the magazine, it was the issue of Time that had made Casey infamous. He took it from Casey and offered it to Charly like hard evidence of some crime.

"Casey said he didn't have a copy of that," Charly explained. "I have two, so I thought I'd give him that one."

Zeke slapped the magazine down on the desk and said loudly, "I take it you snuck up here so you could be lying in wait for him when he had to take a piss?"

Casey opened his mouth and closed it without a word. He averted his body, as though he needed to make a full examination of the titles on Charly's shelves, and started to rock slightly, shifting from one foot to the other.

"I did want to talk to him," Charly said. "I haven't made a secret of that, but obviously I'm not going to sneak around my own house."

"So you just happened to be up here when he came up."

"That's right. Like I said, I thought I would go grab the magazine for him."

Zeke folded his arms. "Can we just get down to it? What is it that you want from us?"

Charly took her time in answering, and when she did she was obviously formulating her words with caution. "You think that I want to hurt you but I don't. You think I want to expose you — or him — and I don't."

"You've been trying to get your hooks into him from day one."

"No, that's not — " Charly broke off, shaking her head. Taking a breath to compose herself, she resumed, "All this trying to get to know you, to be friends, it isn't for some ulterior purpose. I just want to help. It's not easy being on your own for the first time in a strange city, I know that because I came here myself when I was twenty and it wasn't exactly a picnic."

"Okay, fine." Zeke would give her that one. "But you keep bringing up things that you know we don't want brought up."

"I'm sorry, but the thing about aliens intrigues me. It always did, even before the Herrington episode. I don't believe in god or any sort of religious bullshit, but I don't want to think about a universe that is empty. I want a universe that's full. That's my version of the comforting lie, you understand? Ever since your experience, I've been collecting accounts of alien contact on earth...abductions, sightings, everything. Nothing is too bizarre for me. Your experience, what you described, is probably the most convincing account I know of."

"But they weren't friendly," Casey said, to the wall.

"I know." Charly shrugged. "It doesn't matter as long as I know there's something else out there. I don't believe in angels or friendly spirits, I believe in nature."

"When you say 'collect,'" Zeke asked slowly, "What do you mean?"

"Mostly, things from newspapers, magazines...police reports, that sort of thing, and I had this idea — just recently, after you moved here I'll admit...I've been thinking, if we could interview survivors and put them in a book or at least a journal — "

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

"I meant it when I said someone should do a follow up, Zeke. It has to be about the experience — before, during, and after. That kind of depth would do justice to your story and make amends for some of the shit reporting I saw. I have a vested interest in good journalism, you know? I've always thought your story needed to be told properly, not just milked for the shock value."

"And I suppose you're just the reporter to do it."

"No — but I do know several excellent investigative journalists — serious, credible, journalists — who might be willing to take this on."

Zeke made like he was actually considering it. "Have you spoken with them?"

"Not yet."

"Good. And you're not going to, you understand?"

"Zeke — "

"It is not going to happen."

"Have you considered that there are three others who might have an opinion on this? Have you asked Casey what he thinks?"

Charly probably didn't see Casey's head twist around, his eyes caught and fearful. Zeke did see it, and he also saw that Stan and Stokely were both standing in the doorway, watching and listening with gaping eyes and mouths. Sasha's head was prominent behind them. "I don't have to ask Casey," Zeke snarled. "I know what he thinks."

Stokely attempted to intervene with, "Zeke, would you friggin' listen to yourself?"

"Were you in on this?" he charged, rounding on her and Stan. "Both of you in on this?"

"I didn't even know!" Stan protested.

"I thought — " Stokely began.

"Never mind. Casey and I are leaving now."

"You don't have to leave," Charly said. "If you don't want to tell the story, that's all I need to hear. I'll try persuasion but I'm not going to force anyone." But her next statement was addressed to Casey alone. "That is, I assume you don't want to."

"Don't talk to him!" Zeke shouted.

"Zeke, man," Stan protested.

"Be reasonable," Stokely put in. "She hasn't hurt anyone."

"I am reasonable," Zeke snapped. "I'm the only reasonable person here, apparently." He wheeled about and told Casey, "We're leaving now." He would not grab Casey, because only a person insecure about his authority would need to grab. He let his gaze linger until he was confident that Casey was going to follow him, then headed for the door. Stan and Stokely moved back to let them through.

"Case," Stokely pleaded when Zeke was almost at the top of the stairs. "Why don't you say something?"

"He's said enough," Zeke stated, over his shoulder.

"No," Charly's voice corrected from behind him. "He never said anything to me, Zeke. Just so you know."

Zeke stopped at that. Casey nearly bumped into him; he turned and steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. Charly was standing in the hallway along with the others. "Look," he said to her, fighting to get the words past a tight, aching throat. "I'm really sorry this happened. It...it was nice of you to make us dinner and I don't think you really mean to do any harm. You just don't seem to know when to let something go."

"Stay, Zeke."

"No. Sorry, we can't."

He lead the way downstairs and out to the car but didn't get in. He just stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the night sky and trying to control his shaking. He recognized this was a moment that he would always remember; way down the road when most of the years between twenty and thirty were gone this memory would stick out. Everything around him felt contingent and fragile and he understood completely how it was all beyond his control, that there was absolutely nothing that could not get away from him. Stan or Stokely could do what they would do and Charly would say what Charly said and at any second passing meteorite could suck away their atmosphere so they had nothing to breathe or existence could just stop itself like a candle going out. Meanwhile, all he had the power to do was try to stop Casey from doing himself any further harm. He should, he had to, and he would.

While he stood there contemplating his powerlessness, Sasha came barrelling out the door, yanking on his jacket as he tumbled down the front steps. "Forget somebody?"

"You want to be in the same car with me?"

Sasha made the universal face of patience-seeking; his eyes closed, his mouth thinned, and he took one, very deliberate breath before saying, "Okay...You know what? Stop acting like you're alone in this. It just makes it easier for you to be a dictator and I've had quite enough for one night."

Zeke found himself without a reply. And still shaking.

"Get in the car," Sasha said, more gently. "I'll drive."

"But — "

"Shut up and give me the keys."

Casey was standing aside watching them with a white face and frozen, gargantuan eyes. At Sasha's gesture he crawled in the back, and Zeke obediently got in the passenger's side.

Sasha started muttering to himself as he pulled away from the curb.

"....nothing like ruining a perfectly good turkey dinner...of course it's a holiday tradition, isn't it, families just gotta go nuts on Thanksgiving and Christmas...but then, hey, this was nothing! A teeny little drama compared to some of my family get-togethers, I could go another ten rounds if I had to but here's the problem, I'm supposed to go to Jerry's mother's for second dessert, not that I even had first dessert. I promised, now what am I going to tell him..."

Sasha paused, quite possibly to take in some oxygen.

"Do you want me to say something?" Zeke asked.

"Not really."

All was silence for the remainder of the drive home.

Back in the apartment, Sasha went immediately to the phone while Casey and Zeke each went to their separate corners, to the couch and the computer. Zeke had left the computer on, and he stared at the screensaver images, a montage of still images downloaded from the American Film Institute while in the distance Sasha talked to Jerry. He couldn't quite make out the content, but it didn't sound like a lighthearted conversation. After it ended he strained his ears and eventually heard a murmur of Casey speaking and Sasha replying. The next thing he heard was the door to the apartment opening and closing and he understood that Casey — the mute, the perpetually silent — had convinced Sasha to leave.

Zeke's heart began to pound, and then pound faster when he heard the very faint scuffle of Casey's feet on the carpet in the hallway, and faster still as he sensed Casey's presence somewhere behind him.

Zeke spun the desk chair to face him. Three days gone and now, at last, Casey was entirely incarnated in his bedroom, real and warm and staring back at him. Neither one of them seemed inclined to move; for Zeke's part, he knew that if Casey made a single move in his direction, he would erupt. He saw himself descending upon him and dragging him to the nearest flat surface — maybe the bed, maybe not. He might not get that far.

He couldn't think of anything insightful to say, so he asked, "How did you get him to leave?"

"I asked."

"Really, is that all it takes?" Zeke's throat was dry. He decided that standing up was within his power now; in reciprocity, Casey took a jerky step in his direction, then stopped and bit his lip. His face twisted up like he was fighting something.

"Okay, so — " Zeke started.

"Fuck!" Casey swore. He kicked out sideways, deliberately hitting the wall, then angled his body and banged his entire forearm, including his fist, against it. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

It took a few seconds for Zeke to get to him and pull him away from the wall. "That's not — Case — "

Casey's arms immediately twined about him, clinging — but only for a moment, letting him go just as suddenly while Casey fixed his gaze on a place somewhere near Zeke's feet. His muffled voice said, "I can't — I can't stop it don't be disgusted with me — "

"Disgusted...Why would I be?"

"Because I'm — I'm gross and pathetic but I just don't care anymore."

"But...aren't you angry?"

At that, Casey raised his head and Zeke got a close-up view of his fevered expression as he ranted, "I know I'm supposed to, and I know you'll be disgusted by me but I don't care. I know I should be pissed at you and I am, I promise I am but I just can't...feel it." His hand slid around Zeke's neck and up into his hair, tugging on it, pulling his mouth down as he strained up. "Don't care...don't be..." he hissed. He lunged, his mouth violently meeting Zeke's, his teeth snarling with Zeke's lip, and at the same time he yanked on Zeke's hair so hard that Zeke let out a cry of pain.

Zeke grabbed a wrist and an upper arm and forced Casey back, into the wall.

They stared at each other, both panting hard, their chests heaving together. Zeke tasted something metallic in his mouth and tested his lower lip with a finger that came away red; blood had been drawn. Casey made a bid for freedom abruptly, trying to pull his hands free. His teeth snapped at Zeke's jaw too, but Zeke evaded that and bore down with all his weight, forcing a knee between Casey's legs.

He wanted to keep Casey still there against the wall — there was something he wanted to say although he was having difficulty remembering what it was — but Casey was both frantic and extremely bendable, slithering left or right as needed to thrust his crotch against whatever part of Zeke he happened to come into contact with. Hip and pelvic bones ground almost audibly. Zeke moaned when their erections finally made haphazard contact and swallowed Casey's answering cry with his own mouth. He crushed his lips against Casey's, meeting no resistence at all. Casey's tongue plunged and his mouth suctioned Zeke's into his, his body pressing desperately against Zeke, completely without balance or dignity.

For a time Zeke lost almost everything but the pulse and motion of that mouth but through it he managed to cling to his niggling worry. He struggled to pull back far enough to speak, drawing a sigh of desperation from Casey as he did. Casey's finger's bit into his forearms, trying to keep him in place. "Wait," Zeke gasped.

"No...wait."

"Yes, wait...you're angry."

Casey's eyes opened, revealing an unwholesome, manic glitter. He spat, "So? Never makes a difference."

Since his lover was demonstrating marginal coherence right then, Zeke thought it best that he take advantage and get right to the point: "I won't fuck you when you're angry at me."

Instantly, the glint in those eyes went nuclear. "You have to."

"I don't have to do anything."

If one approach wasn't working for him, Casey could easily take another. A sheen of tears appeared, although it did not dilute the laser-like heat that was boring into Zeke. Casey said, "I don't want you to see me beg."

Zeke cupped Casey's face in his hands. "Then don't beg," he said.

Casey shoved his hands away, ducking under his arm. Zeke stayed where he was and watched as Casey started to prowl the room. Something awful was coming on; he could tell by the way that Casey covered fewer and fewer feet in each lap of the room, the area that he was treading getting shorter each time so that within moments he was reduced to jittering in small, irregular circles. All that time he was mumbling. "Thought you understood, I thought...did what you wanted, didn't I? I didn't say anything, I thought we had an understanding."

Absently, Zeke marvelled that he could still be as extremely aroused as he was when a big part of him just wanted to flee the room. "What understanding?" he asked, as calmly as he could manage.

"You wanted me to be quiet about aliens, you threatened not to be with me anymore. So I said I would be quiet — that was the deal, wasn't it?"

Zeke realized a second after this statement that his mouth hanging open. Silly or not, it seemed to be what you did when you were completely blindsided.

"You threatened that you'd leave me," Casey accused.

"No, Casey, no — please stop that — stop pacing!" Casey stopped in his tracks, putting his hands together at his chest and wringing them together like he was trying to tear off a piece of himself. "That wasn't what I meant."

"What did you mean, then?"

Zeke wished he knew. The only thing that he did know was that he had read Casey's silence completely wrong. All this time he'd thought that Casey wasn't talking to him because he was angry at being bullied. Meanwhile, Casey was actually angry that Zeke seemed to be ignoring the terms of an agreement — but that wasn't what he had meant, was it? No, it couldn't have...Three days ago he had been in a blind panic, thinking about forcing the issue of Casey's secrets, telling on him to the doctor, and yes, he had been thinking about sex but not giving it up, never giving it up. Certainly not ever leaving Casey. In truth, he hadn't really thought through what he was threatening, he just knew that he could stop Casey, that he had to stop him or he would lose him. Not losing Casey had been the whole fucking point.

Zeke discovered that he needed to rest his legs. Possibly also his head. He stumbled in the direction of the bed and sat heavily. His eyes fell upon Casey's hands; they were small but also kind of squat and, he knew from experience, quite strong. They were clenching and unclenching as Zeke watched. Maybe Casey was fighting an urge to wind up and punch Zeke, and as much as Zeke wasn't into pain, a punch sounded kind of refreshing. Maybe it would help to clear his head.

Casey's hands had fallen open, Zeke saw. The trajectory had shifted and they were coming towards him. They touched his shoulders, and then Casey was moving right up close to his body, slipping into the space between his knees. Cool fingers trailed a pattern over his sweaty forehead and down his cheeks, stroking his jaw. A voice whispered to him, "It doesn't matter, Zeke, I swear. It's okay, I...it really is and you know I was good, I didn't talk or anything...because I don't want you to worry. It won't be wrong if...if we care about each other it won't be wrong, just don't think like that."

Stalling for time, Zeke put his arms loosely around Casey's waist. Casey had said it a few minutes ago: Fuck, fuck, fuck! Such an astute observation, that, because Zeke was very much afraid that it would be wrong — how could it not be when he couldn't touch Casey without Casey viewing it as a consummation of this unholy arrangement he'd conjured up in his beautiful, tragic head? And all this while Zeke was wanting to touch Casey, touch him and fuck him through the floor, he wanted it so badly it seemed possible that he might actually burn to cinders. There would be nothing left of him but little black bits of carbon.

He was not action guy now; he was in a state of paralysis. His inflamed body was somehow frozen, along with his brain. He couldn't move and he couldn't move away.

Meanwhile, experience had taught Casey that he only had to take the decision out of Zeke's hands. Casey was visibly unconcerned with Zeke's passivity; he casually shed one of the shirts he was wearing, unbuttoning it and throwing it off to the side with a twist of a grin, then pulled his long-sleeved t-shirt over his head, making his strange and wonderful hair stand on end in places. He was wearing the necklace that Sasha had bought him.

Suddenly Zeke could move but it felt as though he were not moving under his own power, as though he were enthralled. He put out a hand to touch the pendant briefly, then moving to touch the hollow of Casey's throat, possibly the most perfect place on his body. He felt Casey shiver. "Case — " he started to whisper.

"Shh." Three fingers strayed across his mouth. They were marshmallow- flavoured.

Absently, he noted that his own shirt was being unbuttoned and slipped off of his shoulders in that matter-of-fact way that was so very much Casey's. Leaving the slightly more problematic issue of getting him out of his sleeves without his participation, Casey undid Zeke's belt instead and opened the front of his pants, letting his fingers brush gently over Zeke's belly. Panting slightly, he put a knee on the bed beside Zeke's thigh, then the opposite knee beside the opposite thigh; Zeke obligingly shifted and braced himself so that Casey could sit without risk of falling off but Casey gave him a little push and he let himself go, falling onto his back.

For such a small person, Casey did a good job of seeming to be everywhere at once. A mouth and hands were roaming Zeke's chest, stroking and sampling; at the same time Casey adjusted his straddle so that Zeke's hard bulge was lined up with his own and he was rocking, using very tiny, humping motions, almost as though he didn't realize he was doing it, making Zeke's body cry more every other second.

Not even a full minute of this torture, and Zeke was nearly broken. Sensing it, Casey stopped moving. He shifted back, settling comfortably in Zeke's lap, doing nothing except keeping his hand moving idly against Zeke's chest. Zeke was drowning, his eyes full of white, white flesh and eyes that seemed to have become a soft, gelatinous blue compelling him to plunge and rampage to his heart's content and he felt a stirring of fear...just a dim, faint tremor of it, and then it was gone.

He gripped Casey's shoulders and sat up to kiss lips that had gone a deep, shining berry red, so moist they seemed to give under his like some sweet, custardy dessert. His hand came up finally, behind Casey's back, and played with a strand of hair at the nape of Casey's neck — and now his other hand was involved too, moving randomly over Casey's torso. He found a nipple and toyed with it, thrilling when Casey arched into his hands and mouth. Casey tore his mouth away and gasped, "Should I take off my pants?"

Zeke nodded, whispered, "Oh, yeah...yes." There was some will in him now; it was the will to do everything and anything to this body that was soon completely bared and falling back on the bed while Zeke shimmied out of shirt and pants and grabbed lube from somewhere, amazed that he even remembered where it was. He threw the tube down on the bed and then laid himself beside Casey's body. His entire crotch felt swollen, absolutely molten and he needed to get off more than he needed to breathe but again there was this disturbance in him, this troublesome thing that tugged and demanded some semblance of absolution before he could have what he wanted.

"I've been horrible to you," he said, throwing a leg over Casey's, getting their erections closer.

"I don't care," Casey returned. He wriggled, fitting his supple and willing body against, almost under, Zeke.

"I'm just saying...This isn't going to make it better."

Zeke raised himself on one elbow so he could watch as possible responses ran across Casey's face. He saw Casey picked through them and decide on the least honest of the bunch.

"I know you're sorry," Casey said.

Zeke didn't say it: No, not sorry. Just sorry that I have to do it. He could have said that and still had Casey upside-down, backwards and sideways, he knew there was no issue there but he couldn't say it and then delude himself that all was forgiven, as he was about to do.

There could be nothing so satisfying as the way that his lover's smooth, solid flesh gave itself into his hand. He pressed one palm down Casey's thigh from knee to groin and stroked Casey's very hot, very hard cock. Casey's body formed a taut bow; he whimpered something. Zeke decided that absolution was overrated. He pushed Casey's leg to the side and reached for the lubricant.

But then as he did, disaster happened. His own erection brushed Casey's thigh and he realized instantly that he was too tightly wound; that slight touch was enough to set him off. A shudder went through him, and a groan, and he was done.

All was still for a moment, apart from Zeke catching his breath. "Fuck," he wheezed, dropping his head onto Casey's chest. "Shit."

Casey moved slightly, unbending his knee so his leg lay flat while his erection continued to jut up. "Yeah," he said, sounding not very happy.

"Hey, don't sound so glum." Zeke shifted, moving his body down the bed so he could get into a convenient position. "I still have lots of toys to play with."

Casey pushed at his shoulders, trying to hold him back. "Wh-what are you doing?" Casey asked.

"I'm going to do something obscene to your cock with my mouth."

The shoving became frantic. "No. I don't want you to."

Zeke disbelieved his ears. "Let me see if I heard you right. You, a guy, are telling me you do not want a blow job."

Scooting out of reach of Zeke's mouth and hands, Casey sat up and pulled up one knee, guarding his most sensitive parts. "I want you to fuck me."

"Well, I can't do that right now, can I?"

"You can in a few minutes, I'll help you get hard again."

So delusion time was over. Zeke also sat up, feeling guilt, relief and a curious sense of defilement all at once. Sure, as a guy he was supposed to be ready to mount anyone at any moment, and not that he found anything unpleasant in the scenario that Casey proposed but he didn't particularly like being treated like a wind- up doll.

"No," he said, enunciating clearly and with conviction.

The responses were fairly predictable. Casey's other knee went up, heels pressing tight against buttocks as he began to quiver. Zeke reached to touch him. He scratched and pushed at Zeke's arm, frantic in his attempts to keep that hand away, staring at Zeke with moist, glowing eyes set in a dead white face and Zeke remembered then what had been scary a few minutes ago: It was Casey himself. Casey was more terrifying than a fistful of alien queens, and Zeke was fucking grateful for his body's betrayal. His body had saved him from making a horrible mistake — but it wasn't going to save him from Casey.

Needing some cover, Zeke got up and pulled on his pants, foregoing underwear for the moment. He pulled on his wrinkled shirt with short, jerky motions. Through it all, he didn't hear a sound behind him and his skin crawled, almost expecting an attack while his back was turned.

He turned and found Casey in the exact same posture as a moment ago. "Case," he started, and realized he had nothing to say.

Casey's entire posture embodied vulnerability even as the voice that came from him was unyielding and cold. "You want me to beg? I'll do it."

"No," Zeke said. "I don't want that."

"Then don't make me."

"Casey."

"You were okay with doing me...you were just fine with it."

"I know, and I was wrong."

"Oh, it's wrong. I see...as long as you get off first."

Zeke could not look away; this was too important, it was a matter of principle, of being correct. He said, "You're right. It's not fair to you at all but if we were banging away right now, it would still be a mistake. And since you're not willing to do it any other way...I think it would be best if we both got dressed."

"Prick."

"Yes. I am. But I'm also right."

Those words rang around the room, falling into a terrible silence. Then Casey was scrambling to the end of the bed and off. Zeke understood quickly that Casey was looking for something to destroy. He followed Casey's eye line to the piles of library books and managed to get between them and Casey but only after Casey had toppled the first one. Stepping protectively in front of what was left, Zeke put a hand out, flat on Casey's chest. "Don't you fucking dare," he warned.

In response, Casey grabbed one book that had been sitting open on top of the desk and threw it across the room, against the wall.

Zeke replied by throwing his arms around Casey, pinning his arms to his sides. "Don't," he ordered.

"Let go." Casey was trying to break out of his Zeke-prison, without much success. He fought and squirmed and elbowed, imprinting injury after injury on both of them. "Let...go!" he grunted.

Zeke just held on, squeezing Casey tighter and tighter as his personal ire rose higher and higher. He'd had enough with tantrums from nineteen — fuck, almost twenty — year-olds, even if they were emotionally disturbed through no real fault of their own, and they were dealing with the aftermath of a horrible relationship...and they were mesmerizing and he loved them so much he thought he might explode from it but Zeke was not going to put up with it this time. Casey could fight until they were both wrecked from head to foot.

"Not...until...you stop," Zeke spat back.

Impossibly, their doorbell rang.

For some peculiar reason Casey went limp, like he was actually not too far gone to think about what a guest might think if they saw him and Zeke having a domestic dispute. Maybe he was just picking the opportune moment to give up. Or maybe he was tired too.

As the bell rang again, Zeke loosened the barrier he had made around Casey so as to test his compliance. "I'm going to answer it," he said. For a few moments he remained poised to tighten his control as needed, and when there was no violence, not even motion, he let his arms fall. He stepped carefully around Casey and suggested, "Why don't you put on some clothes while I'm doing that?"

Walking down the hall to the front door, he muttered as many swear words as he could fit into once sentence. It had to be Stokely at the door, wanting to check in on them although he had to wonder why she hadn't just phoned. Okay, it could be Stan, or maybe Sasha had come home early and forgotten his keys for some reason —

It was not Stokely. It was not Stan.

Winona.

"This is so not a good time," he blurted, not even thinking to censor himself in his dismay and down-right annoyance at seeing her there. Then she lifted swollen, red-rimmed eyes, and he was obligated to feel some regret.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I called several times and there was no answer so I thought...thought I'd just try coming over."

Zeke shot a look at the answering machine, just to his right. The digital four was illuminated in red, right in plain sight. Neither he nor Casey had bothered to look, and if Sasha had seen it, he hadn't felt the need to mention it.

"What's up?" he said. He thought he sounded almost casual.

"I'm — " Winona bit her lip, chin quivering. "Having a bad day here." She set her shoulders then and said, "I know it's a holiday and it's pretty cheeky for me to just show up like this and you can tell me to take a hike if you want but I have to ask...Can I come in, please?"

Zeke didn't mind if she saw his reluctance, because she really had come at the most awful time imaginable. He looked over his shoulder, expecting to find Casey behind him. There was no one there, though, and that helped to decide him on a temporary course of action.

"Okay," he allowed. He stepped back a bit so that she could come in, not letting her any further than just inside the door. He remained just there, blocking her access. "What's up?" he asked again.

Winona peered around him. He couldn't fault her for that; Casey's presence was thick in the apartment. "Where's Casey?" she asked.

"He's around. Not to be rude, but was there something you wanted to ask me?"

Her reddened eyes teared up right in front of him. "Can I take you out for a beer?" she asked.

"I'm sorry, but no."

"Just for a little while?"

"No. It can't happen...not today, sorry."

"Then can...could I just talk to you for a few minutes?"

Again he hesitated, wishing that she would feel so uncomfortable and unwanted that she would leave. But she didn't budge; if she did feel unwanted, her need for an ear, even a not-quite-willing ear, was the bigger factor. It was bizarre that he had suddenly become everyone's emotional dumping-ground, it made no sense to him because he was not an empathic guy, never had been.

But to deny her completely seemed a much greater cruelty than he could inflict on anyone at that moment, especially since it would be so easy not to be cruel. Some people got everything so twisted and wretched that every move you made, even if it was correct, caused them pain. As difficult and inconvenient as this was, he could talk to Winona for ten minutes and send her on her way, and if he never saw her again he would at least know that he hadn't been a prick to her.

"Wait here for a sec," he told her.

He went down the hall to the bedroom with no idea what to expect. Some kind of jealous rage perhaps, or a personality shift — certainly not Casey sitting on the floor beside the bed, facing the door. He was wearing his pants but nothing else, and he had formed himself into a ball of half-naked flesh. He was gaping up at Zeke with an expression that defied understanding. It was that thing that Zeke had occasionally seen in him and dreaded, but now increased to a power of ten. It was terror, it was rage, and it was a despair so complete that anyone seeing it had to know that this person could actually be dangerous because they had nothing left to lose.

"Don't let her in," Casey said. He was shaking so that Zeke could actually see his knees knocking.

Frowning, Zeke shut the bedroom door and knelt down beside Casey. "Just for a few minutes?"

"No, why did you open it — ?"

"She was there, Case, I'm sorry, she looks really upset and she's begging to — "

"Don't," Casey pleaded, catching his sleeve.

"I'm not going anywhere, but she asked to talk to me for a few minutes and I thought we could just — "

"No."

"— go up on the roof and talk for a short while and then she'll leave."

"No!"

"Casey," Zeke said in a low voice. "The woman is crying at our doorstep."

"I don't care. She can't come in."

"Quiet, she'll hear you."

"She can't come in!"

Zeke took hold of one of Casey's arms. "Listen to me. She's already in."

"No!" Casey shrilled. He yanked his arm away, and then for good measure he kicked out, catching Zeke in the shin.

Being hit with a bare foot shouldn't have hurt, but it did. Repressing his yelp of pain, Zeke stood. "Okay, good. Now I've got you having hysterics here and someone else having hysterics out there. I don't know what you want me to do but I know what she wants. I'm going to go talk to someone I can make a difference to. I'm going to allow her to walk through the kitchen and up to the roof. I'll talk to you later."

"Zeke."

Zeke couldn't ignore that small, desperate sound; he turned to see that Casey was struggling onto his bare feet and looking as though he were going to follow Zeke. "What are you doing?" Zeke asked.

"You can't be alone with her...she...she has to be watched."

Fucking hell. Zeke could actually see his skin move with tremors, muscles twitching and spasming beneath the dreadful pallor.

"No, Casey," he commanded, trying to sound much stronger than he felt. He just had to take one thing at a time. He would deal with Winona and then he would try and tackle his lover's raging psychosis. "Stay here. I won't be long."

"No but sh-she can't be...you can't..."

"Just chill, okay?"

Casey shuddered, visibly trying to get a grip, but he insisted, "She shouldn't be in here."

"But she is." Zeke gripped Casey's bare shoulders to emphasize his next demand. "And I want you to stay in here, Casey. I'll only be a few minutes, understand?"

If Casey had been someone else's boyfriend, Zeke would have been impressed by the magnificent combination of emotions that was his expression right now. He tore himself from Zeke's grip, looking absolutely extreme and operatic, like he could have spat on Zeke and showered him with tears at the same time. "Go on," Casey said. "Hang with...with her, t-talk to...to her."

"How about just for once you cut me some fucking slack?" Casey didn't answer, and Zeke felt pretty certain that no slack was being cut. He lifted his hands in frustration. "I'm not Roy, Casey. I'm just not."

"Oh, I know."

It was delivered in a smarmy, sneering tone that was intended to let Zeke know exactly how he fell short of Roy. Anger consumed whatever was left of compassion and reason, and Zeke snarled in return, "Okay. I'll talk to her for a while and I expect you to stay in this fucking room. After that we're going to sit down and make a list of things that are different between me and Roy."

"Why don't you tell me one thing now," Casey gritted. "Something to cling to while you're up there getting cozy with her."

"Sure." Zeke leaned in, and grabbed Casey, yanked him so close that Casey should be able to feel his breath as he ground out his reply: "I wouldn't marry some woman even though I was gay and then keep my fucktoy on the side." With that, he released Casey — okay, maybe pushed him a little but not all that hard — and wheeled around to leave the room. He didn't need to stick around to see Casey's face right now because he knew that if he did his triumph would be instantly crushed. As it was, the narcotic of self-administered vindication lasted only a few seconds. There was still anger, which he was not ready to relinquish just yet.

He was stomping back to the front door, and he never stomped. He was just so fucking tired of this crap. He could take the tears and the traumas but he could not take the false accusations — because they were false. If there was one thing he couldn't tolerate, it was people walking around believing things that weren't the facts even when they'd been told the facts. Repeatedly. Being actively delusional was no excuse.

Winona was exactly where he'd left her — she could follow instructions, at least — and from her face Zeke could imagine that she'd heard pretty much everything. "Okay," he said, his voice harsh. "We'll go up on the roof."

"Zeke...I'm sorry to be such a pest."

"It's okay," he said, almost not lying. "Things can get kinda rough, I know."

It wasn't really a question but she took it as one. "Yeah. This entire month's been crap. First Greg dumped me and my room-mate Tabitha, she's driving me batty and now it's exams coming, I'm probably going to fail everything..."

Something told Zeke to turn and look back to where he'd just come from. Casey was standing in the hallway just outside the bedroom door, visible only from where Zeke stood. He was still barefoot, but he had put on the ratty X-Files t-shirt that he often slept in and he was just standing there and looking at Zeke. There was no question that he'd heard Winona's lament in its entirety, lack of boyfriend included.

"Um...you want to go upstairs?" Zeke suggested to her. "I'll be there in a sec."

Winona blinked at the suddenness of it, and then nodded. As she moved into the kitchen her sight line changed; she caught sight of Casey and started. "Oh, shit! Casey! Man, you scared me!"

Not even blinking, Casey stared at her. Then, without expression or a wordof reply, he slipped back into the bedroom. The door slammed.

"Ouch," Winona remarked sourly. "Should I go?"

Zeke shook his head and said, "Just go up." He pointed to the ceiling, keenly looking forward to being on the roof now — he could use the air if nothing else. He followed her up.

The chill felt wonderful on his overheated face, and the first thing he did was light a cigarette, inhaling so deeply that he could feel each individual tube and alveoli all the way to the bottom of his lungs curling up and screaming. The poisons flooding his body brought back some sanity, maybe even a scrap of patience. Only after two or three really ass-kicking hauls on his smoke did he notice that Winona was standing fairly distant, away from their sad little garden and the illumination provided by the light over the door. She was almost in the dark. "What are you doing over there?"

She came a bit closer. "I dunno, you were having a private moment with your cig."

"Oh." Zeke rubbed his neck. "Why did you have to mention your boyfriend?"

"I'm sorry, Zeke, it was just...why not mention it because it did happen and I didn't know he was standing there...and Zeke, I really only want us to be friends."

"I know."

"Casey doesn't though, he won't even say hi to me. He hates me and that's not fair."

Zeke couldn't muster a defense of Casey at the moment. The best he could come up with was, "It's not personal."

"I dunno about that." Winona smiled wistfully.

"Believe it." Zeke folded into one of the chairs and sucked back some smoke. His anger was beginning to fade a little, mellowing into what was merely an intense feeling of frustration. "The last person Casey was with was keeping a woman on the side and lying to him about how involved he was with her."

"And how involved was he?"

"He married her."

"Pretty involved, then."

"Yeah." Tipping ashes, Zeke asked, "So why did you want to talk to me so badly?"

"Oh...well, um...just everything getting to me. Mostly my kid."

"Mm hmm."

"I guess I never really told you about this. See, Aaron's lived with his grandmother most of his life and he barely knows me."

"Hmm." Zeke was deliberately trying to avoid commentary, so as to avoid lengthening this conversation.

"I had him when I was sixteen. I told you that, eh?"

"Yeah."

"But I didn't tell you the part where I ran off when Aaron was only eight months old." Winona's voice shuddered. Zeke held his breath, hoping she wouldn't cry because he wouldn't know what to do. Didn't they know that he just wasn't any good with people in general? "I can't say it was because I was drinking or doing drugs — although I was. I just felt overwhelmed and I met this guy, he was twenty-two and he seemed so cool...I took off with him. I left my baby with my mother." Winona took a deep breath, lifting her head. "It's the most terrible thing I've ever done...well, obviously. I figure lots of people would say I'm a terrible person too — but it took me years to get my act together and work up the courage to go back to school. I was practically homeless for a few years there...basically, I was a stupid, screwed-up kid."

She left a pause that Zeke was probably supposed to fill. "Lots of people used to be stupid, screwed-up kids," he said. "Some of us still are."

"I thought...You're in your twenties, aren't you?"

"Twenty-three next week, actually. But I've done my share of dicking around."

"You seem so together, so...I mean, you strike me as kind of wise. I thought you were older. I think that's why I've been hanging around. There's a part of me that's still that kid looking for a mentor, you know?"

"I guess," Zeke smiled, feeling distinctly embarrassed.

"Sorry. I don't mean to be all gushy...but I am."

"It's okay."

"I'm probably expecting too much of Aaron, aren't I? I mean, he can't possibly forgive me."

"Well..."

"I just sort of reappeared two years ago. I've been trying to get closer to him but...god. It's so hard." Just when Zeke thought the crisis had been averted, Winona broke down and began to cry. "My mother is doing everything in her power to make him hate me!"

What the fuck was he supposed to do now? He didn't know how to begin to wade in and he didn't particularly want to apply himself to the problem. This was an entire life history full of serious, personal shit, and he had a couple of those on his hands already.

Winona rattled on, "I wanted to go to Vancouver for Canadian Thanksgiving but she told me some story about how they were going to a friend's and it would be too awkward to invite me. So then I was...talking to her for the last month about going up for American Thanksgiving weekend, just to spend some time with them and then all of a sudden she says Aaron doesn't want me to come and — and — don't bother — to sh-show up!"

Zeke leaned over and patted Winona's knee. "Um..." he said, feeling very lame.

"I've...been trying...really trying but I don't think he's ever going to...to trust me!"

Winona was full-out sobbing as she concluded this last statement, but at the same time making some effort to control it. Zeke wanted to offer her a tissue or something but since there were none around he just sat and waited for her to collect herself.

"Do you want to know what I think?" he asked, when she was calmer.

"Yes?" she sniffed.

"I think that if you don't give up, if you stick around and just keep sending the same message, that you want to be his mother...he'll eventually come around. He'll want to give you a second chance."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I think so. As long as you don't jerk him around."

Winona suddenly fell to a fresh outpouring of sobs. Zeke couldn't manage to ignore the call of simple human decency any longer; he pulled his chair closer and put his arm around her shoulders. Her head fell against him, but a crisis point had been passed. Her crying subsided until she was merely shuddering and sniffling. Wiping her face, she said, "I'm a soggy mess."

"Naw," he said.

She laughed. "Yeah, okay." With a pass of her sleeve over her damp face, she said, "How is it that you always seem to know what you're talking about?"

"Habit." He shrugged. "Even if you're wrong, you might as well make your mistakes with confidence. If someone happens to prove you're wrong, then you apologize."

"Are you wrong?"

"No. Not this time."

"I believe you, Zeke." Winona heaved a sigh. "I feel better. There's nothing to be done about the boyfriend thing or the fact that I'm going to fail all of my exams...but I feel better."

Oddly, Zeke was feeling better too. "You're not going to fail," he told her.

"Oh, yeah? How do you know that?"

"Because you work hard. People don't work hard and fail."

She considered that. "You know...I think you're probably right. It's just...hard to believe a lot of the time."

"I hear you."

"You mean...you don't actually doubt yourself? Not you."

"Sure. All the time."

Something in his tone must have been too revealing. Winona gave him a sympathetic look and said, "You're pretty stressed too, eh?"

"Yeah...well."

"You...could tell me about it...if you want?"

Zeke heard himself say, "There isn't much to talk about. I know he's going to be okay someday. I just don't know if I'm going to survive until then."

"Okay, let me give you a piece of my wisdom now. I used to have this thing for guys who were fixer-uppers, you know what I mean? I must have dated about ten of them so I can tell you...that's always bad news, Zeke."

Zeke felt acute discomfort and realized he had egged her on, that he was venting about Casey to her again. He sensed that she was not just willing but eager to hear criticism of Casey and that was why he was so tempted to talk to her. This was becoming a serious ethical challenge for him. "Okay," he said quickly, "but you know, this situation is a little different."

"You figure?"

"Look, I don't really feel like talking about it."

"Sure, okay. Sorry."

"It's okay." Zeke resorted to one of the classic It's-Time-For-You-To-Go gestures, putting his hands on his knees with a certain amount of deliberation. "I don't mean to be rude..."

"No, I understand. Thanks for the chat. I was feeling really...just miserable and alone but I feel better now."

"Good."

They both stood up.

"So...twenty-three in a week, huh?" Winona mused. "Are you doing anything for your birthday?"

Zeke had to perform a lightning-quick series of computations to choose between two tiny words. He came up with "yes."

"Oh," Winona said.

Shit. He'd gotten himself cornered, and Casey was going to fucking kill him. Or something. It was not going to be pretty anyway. He said, "Just a little get together here. Next Sunday...Do you want to come?"

"If it won't be a problem..." Winona said.

"Well, I live here so I can issue invitations," he replied, a bit petulantly. "And it is my party."

"Yeah, but...to be honest, it's not much fun eating cake with blue strobe-lights right in my face."

Zeke laughed. "I know how you feel." Just then, he was glad that he had invited her. The Un-Casey was good for him.

"How about we say I'll think about it," Winona finished.

"All right."

Casey was nowhere to be seen when they returned to the kitchen. Nor to be heard, which was odd because Zeke had expected him to be in the living room and well into escaperama by now. He said a cordial goodnight to Winona and promised to be on time for class on Monday. She pretended like she believed him.

Once the door shut behind her he went straight for the bedroom, calling, "Case, c'mon out, she's gone." He felt confident that he'd regained some perspective during the last half-hour. He could be patient again. After all, his lover was still a very ill person and it was a credit to Casey's efforts that he had gotten to the point where he could occasionally make Zeke forget that.

But Casey was not in the bedroom. Puzzling, Zeke checked Sasha's bedroom, then the living room and the bathroom. "Casey?!" he shouted as he went. "Case? Come out and be mad at me now!"

There was no response.

Feeling ludicrous, Zeke even checked all the closets and behind the shower curtain. After that, he checked the bedroom and the living room again because he had a ways to go before he could accept that Casey would have left the apartment.

There was no Casey.

 

There was a word for this.

Trapped.

Zeke had let the Beast into their home. Zeke had just opened the door, just like that and then It was inside and Casey had almost crawled under the bed to hide except he was so completely frozen with terror at first that he couldn't move and by the time he was unfrozen he knew there was no point anyway. People wanted what they wanted and no way was it just friendship, he knew better. She didn't have a boyfriend, she hadn't had a boyfriend for a while now. All this time she was spending with Zeke couldn't just be friendship and Zeke hadn't told him, why would Zeke not tell him unless he felt there was something to hide?

Casey couldn't believe that Zeke had done this, set him up like this. Refusing to give him what he needed, rejecting him, opening the door when he shouldn't and then calling Casey — what Zeke had called him. Well, Zeke didn't realize, did he, that it was perfectly okay if he wanted to despise Casey as long as he was consistent about it. Zeke thought he had delivered such a stinging insult, and yeah it hurt to know that Zeke thought that about him but it wasn't anything he didn't already know. Casey could live with it, he would be Zeke's fucktoy and accept Zeke's judgment if Zeke would just do and be one way. All of a sudden today Zeke wanted to pretend their relationship wasn't about sex...so Zeke was a liar and a hypocrite, he had made a promise to Casey that he wasn't keeping. He saw to it that Casey was trapped, he forced Casey to be quiet about certain things which was certainly not fair but fine if that was how he wanted it. So Casey had let him know Okay, I accept, control every little thing I do, except then Zeke turned around and said But it wouldn't be right, I can't do that to you, Casey.

And then he opened the door to the Beast, he let the Beast in. She's already in, Casey, she's already here just accept it stay here let me talk to her let me convince her...stay here on the roof for a while, Jan, while I handle him...no, it won't be a problem, he'll do anything for me.

It seemed that a red foam was filling Casey's eyes, rising and rising until he was blinded by it. His hands were fisted, ready to strike out if those two demanded anything of him. He wouldn't let that happen. This time she wouldn't get him, she wouldn't have him. She'd had her chance already — and she had rejected him, just like everyone else. He wished he knew how he'd gotten to be such an abomination. He wished he knew why she would even come back, it could only be to finish him, eradicate the aberration once and for all.

Trapped.

There were walls imprisoning him, they were closing in, keeping him in danger. He had to get out. If he didn't, he would die — or worse, it would happen again and he would live. There was a tiny voice crying that he was really fucked in the head now but that cry was overpowered by fearful expectations of What Would Happen. Any second now that door from upstairs was going to open and someone would be standing there saying I have the solution.

Shoes, he needed his shoes. In his bare feet he lurched down the hall to the front entrance, and spotted them lying near the door.

Putting them on was harder than it should have been because he had to keep watching that door while he was trying to look down and attend to his feet. He tried jamming one foot in but it was tied too fucking tight, he couldn't get his foot in no matter how he tried. So his kindergarten training was finally going to pay off; his breath coming short and shallow, he bent over to undo the laces. The entire time that he executed the necessary operations to get both shoes on his feet he was wondering why Miss Horowitz hadn't thought to drill her five-year-olds with a gun over their heads. Extreme, but it would have ensured that they would be able to perform under pressure when the time came.

Finally his shoes were tied and he grabbed the nearest, closest thing he could see to keep warm, it was Zeke's good leather jacket, the expensive one with the lining so it could be worn well into the fall...and Zeke had been getting a lot of use out of it. Served him right if he never saw it again.

Casey grabbed the doorknob; his hands slipped, sweaty with fear. Right then he became absolutely certain that they were behind him, that the door in the kitchen was opening. The door to the outside made a terrible, godawful creaking sound when he tried it — shit, he had to be quiet if he was going to escape undetected. He closed his eyes, taking a half a breath, and then he was through and out into the night.

He clutched the rail on the way down the stairs, having visions of missing his step and tumbling. Everything was wet and slippery and the air was filled with a murky chill, the street unusually deserted. He had no recent memory of being outside at night, by himself. In fact he had no memory of ever wandering city streets like this, although he knew that it had to have happened sometime. It was as though his life had started at Whitby Psychiatric Hospital. There had been no Casey Connor before that, certainly not one that he could recall with any clarity.

He had no destination. He turned left on the sidewalk and just started walking.

It was astonishing to him that he was still functioning, astounding that the worst could happen and he wasn't curled up in the alley, sobbing. Only anger could make that possible; he was terrified and he was certainly miserable but he was mostly furious — furious at Zeke, and that fury was driving him out here. If not for anger he'd be running back and begging for forgiveness but why should he beg when it was Zeke who had pulled back? Zeke could have made everything better but he didn't. Casey had thought that Zeke understood how to get him to behave the way he wanted; Zeke had known enough to strike a deal but then when it was time to ante up, suddenly it was lah-dee-dah we can't make a mistake Casey sorry it isn't fair thank god I shot my load too soon thank god the Beast showed up at the door to save us.

"Fuck you!" Casey screamed. Yep, he was a nutcase just screaming at the fog right now...if anyone wanted to know.

He came to an intersection and stopped; there was a green light just barely managing to pierce the fog and be visible from where he stood. He crossed that street, turning and heading back towards familiar territory. Except nothing was truly familiar here, everything was covered in vapour and he wondered if maybe he'd drifted into a different reality without quite realizing it. He could see almost nothing except his feet, the haze parting before him and closing behind just as quickly. Maybe he was just haunting this street now, not really walking on it. Fuck, even as a ghost he was pitiful, he would pacing the same two or three blocks for all eternity since he was too afraid to go further from home.

Oh, he didn't like it out here. This was why anger was no good. It was keeping him from wanting to go back when this tiny voice — mostly ignored still — was whimpering that it couldn't really be Zeke's fault, that it actually was actually Casey's fault, it had to be because it always was. He hadn't been enough of whatever it was he had to be and now Zeke was tired and fed up, knowing he couldn't be everything for Casey. No one could. Casey's only recourse now was to fall at Zeke's feet and promise never to feel anger again. Pathetic, but he needed that perfect haven of quiet that Zeke had held out and then snatched away. His body was shaking, jonesing for it, his head whirling with noise and craziness — oh yeah he knew he was having a major attack of the crazies so he couldn't figure out how Zeke could see that and then decide that any temporary remission would be bad for him. Fucking prick.

"Casey?"

It was from behind him, a ways back. He came to a stop and turned, expecting to see Zeke. Hoping. There was nothing, just a whitish void. His heart, that had settled into a nice, rolling trot, suddenly leapt up to a gallop.

"Wh-who's there?"

A figure took shape suddenly and Casey leapt back, ready to flee.

"It's me," it said.

"T-Thomas?"

Thomas' long legs swallowed up the remaining feet between them. Casey imagined he must look very much like a rabbit, standing wild-eyed and panting, paralyzed in the act of bolting, quivering in his shoes. It was like Thomas had emerged from nothing but memory, wearing the same suit that he had worn the first time Casey saw him, even the same tie. Except this time rather than being crisply pressed, the suit was noticeably wrinkled. The entire presentation was utterly bizarre, but when Thomas smiled he made a person want to forget that. "Did I frighten you, Mr. Casey?"

"Y-yeah."

"I am sorry."

The apology did not relax Casey at all. He was, after all, looking at a man who was out walking around in the fog in a three-piece suit. On Thanksgiving. This was someone who to all intents and purposes looked normal but was at the same time completely abnormal in everything that they did. Casey might be sick and irrational, he would admit to that but he knew an alien when he saw one. The thing that really stumped Casey was that Thomas was so very charming. The others were never really charming. Aggressively sexual, yes —

Thomas took a step closer, peering at Casey. "Have you been crying?" he asked.

Casey quickly rubbed his eyes. "No."

"I think you have. Maybe you just didn't know it."

"What's it to you?"

Thomas smiled again. There was something else different about him tonight, Casey realized. He seemed to vibrate with an energy that couldn't be explained or named but it was really there, a tangible thing coming off his skin, from his hands and his face. It made Casey think that he wanted to remain in Thomas' presence even though it was scary too. "Nothing, really, except I rather worry about you, especially when I find you wandering around in the fog at night. Your boyfriend must be frantic."

"So what?" Casey gasped, and now, with perfect timing, his eyes were starting to stream. He put his hand up, covering them, trying to hide in that absurd way that one would when emotions were exposed. "He's...not so frantic and if he is...he deserves it."

"I see," Thomas said, kindly pretending not to notice that Casey was disintegrating. "Can I take you for a coffee so we don't have to be out here anymore?"

"I don't know."

"You are cold, aren't you? You're shivering."

"I...don't...."

"Just something to warm you up."

"Nothing's open."

"What? Why?"

"It's Thanksgiving."

"Is it?" Thomas looked momentarily disoriented. "So that's why there's hardly anyone around. I was wondering."

Casey stared at him, confirming that this had to be an alien of some kind. A part of him hollered to run away from this man but another, the part that was pretty much desperate and just wanted whatever this was to be over, said to stay. He wasn't going home now anyway. He didn't know if he could ever go home.

"In that case," Thomas proposed. "Let me take you somewhere that I know for a fact is open for business."

"Where's that?"

"Just follow me. It's only a block away, come on."

"Not until you tell me what it is."

Thomas raised his eyebrows. "So suspicious, Mr. Casey! All right, it's my car. It's parked about a block back."

"Your car," Casey echoed, unable to process that Thomas was being this blatant about his intentions all of a sudden. And maybe he had been wrong about the sexual aggression part and Thomas was exactly like the others, with the difference that he managed to be more appealing than terrifying. "You want me to come and sit in your car with you."

"I know what you're thinking, child, and it isn't that. You can sit with the door open and one foot on the sidewalk if you want."

Zeke's voice started to reverberate through his head. Don't you dare be this stupid, Casey. Don't you fucking dare.

"Why?" he asked Thomas.

"So you can tell me why your boyfriend deserves to be frantic."

Casey shifted his weight. "I don't want to talk about him."

"And get warm," Thomas added. "We'll put the heat on."

That promise of warmth alongside the promise that Casey saw in Thomas' eyes was entirely seductive, and Zeke could just go fuck himself.

"Okay," Casey said.

Thomas gestured back the way Casey had come. They walked together a few hundred feet, passing an older couple walking hand in hand, two of the local artsy-fartsy types. The sight of them made Casey shake as he envisioned Winona and Zeke entwined in the apartment. He'd bet that Zeke was having no trouble getting it up now, and hey, who could blame him? It must be hard to feel sexy around a crazy slut who turned hysterical if he couldn't get a hard cock...but Casey didn't mean to, he didn't, he just needed so much he didn't know what he was doing...like he didn't quite know what he was doing now except he heard an offer of belonging and he was drawn to it against reason and common sense.

An older model Mercedez Benz appeared as promised. Thomas walked up to the passenger side and inserted the key, which he had fished out of his pocket some time ago. He opened the door and made a gallant, welcoming gesture to Casey, like a game-show model presenting a prize. Casey didn't get in right away. He stopped and looked up into Thomas' face. Thomas let him look, without a change in expression. It remained the same, friendly, open face that it had always been. And extremely attractive; Casey wouldn't mind being kissed by that mouth, not at all.

Casey got in.

He wasn't completely without an iota of common sense; he kept the door ajar. He was also relieved to note that the car did not have power locks which meant that once Thomas was in the driver's seat he would be unable to lock Casey in easily. Twisting to look into the back seat, Casey was startled to see a suitcase, only half closed with some articles of clothing spilling out of it. There was also a briefcase sitting open with a large quantity of papers in notable disarray, and most startling thing of all, a pillow and sleeping bag, neatly folded up in the space behind the driver's seat.

Thomas did not start the engine; he put the key in the ignition and turned it halfway so that he could run the heater. He cranked the heat up to maximum.

"There," he said with satisfaction. "I don't like seeing anyone with blue lips. Blue is not a healthy colour for humans."

"Who are you?" Casey demanded. Just a little bit of truth before they got down to it couldn't hurt.

Thomas raised his brows and half-smiled, looking puzzled but tolerant. "Are we not here to talk about you?"

"But I need to know before I can close this door all the way."

"I think the more important question is do you want to close the door?"

Casey replied, "Maybe." His heart was pounding. He was noticing Thomas' scent now, it was the strong, fatherly fragrance of Old Spice — old-fashioned and somehow comforting. He was also noticing how, in the confined space of the car, Thomas seemed quite a lot larger than usual; in his arms a person would be very, very secure. Too secure, maybe. Casey added, "But I'm not going to until you tell me who you are."

Thomas shrugged. "There isn't much to tell. I was born in Barbados. My father is an Anglican minister, my mother is an Anglican minister's wife. I went to school in England for many years and I worked there for several more years and now I am here."

Casey decided to turn sideways and rest his head on the seat, still keeping a hand on the door, keeping it ajar. He found that he was fascinated by Thomas' gestures and facial expressions. Another difference from the others, who were always so flat-looking, so empty. This man was not empty, it was Casey who was empty, who needed... "What — um, what did you study?" he asked.

"Psychoanalysis."

That was interesting enough to make Casey's brain switch onto an entirely different track. "You mean you're a shrink?"

"No. I am not a medical doctor. I was a psychoanalyst for a while but I left my practice."

"Why?"

"I felt I was doing more harm than good. As a method of counselling psychoanalysis is somewhat dated. Perhaps you are unfamiliar with this area...There are many schools of psychoanalytic thought and I won't waste our time explaining what mine was. It is a fascinating philosophy, but I began to question my faith in it and felt it was wrong to continue to use it then in an attempt to heal people."

"What do you do now? Your job, I mean."

"I don't have a job, Casey. I am attempting to run a business, which essentially means that I work twenty-four hours a day. I had an idea that I might have success as...I don't know what you would call it. A motivational speaker perhaps. I offer seminars — my father would call them sermons — to the public. It got off to a slow start but I think that business is starting to pick up. This week I spoke to a group of elementary school teachers and a divorced single father's group. Word is starting to get around and then I think I may have quite a success on my hands. After I have done this for a few years I will have honed my understanding of my approach to life and I will put it into a book which I know will be a bestseller."

Thomas leaned back and smiled yet again. That smile was one of the most beautiful things Casey had ever seen, almost leaping off his face. Casey didn't know what to think of this man. He felt quite certain that this was no normal human being yet he didn't want to run.

"Have I answered satisfactorily?" Thomas finished.

"Are you one of them?" Casey blurted.

Thomas barely reacted. He considered Casey for a full ten seconds and then answered, "I don't know who you mean by 'them.'"

"I think you are."

"If I were, would I tell you?"

Casey pleaded, "Don't play with me. Just tell me what you want."

"I have told you, Casey."

"To get to know me. To be my friend."

"Yes."

"For real? Or you just want to get close enough to hurt me?"

"I certainly do not want to hurt you," Thomas said. His voice had a low, soothing hum; it was as much singing as speaking. "Even if I were one of 'them' I would not want to hurt you."

There was a quake of recognition. Something from inside Thomas, a part that could speak to Casey without speaking, was telling him it was okay if he wanted to be touched. It would be good, he just had to accept it and all the botched attempts would be put behind him, he would finally be safe. He would finally belong.

But at the same time, past experience was impossible to ignore. "If you were one of them," Casey whispered, "you would...hurt me."

"Can you be so sure? Have you seen and heard everything there is to be seen and heard in the universe, Mr. Casey? I know for a fact that there are things so very strange and wonderful that I could never damage them without damaging myself. Maybe you are one of those things to me and even though I may one of 'them,' I am not your enemy. Maybe we are everywhere but you don't need to worry about us because we would sooner cut off our limbs than harm you."

Casey wondered if he might have just been hypnotized. The quiet music of the voice and the words had done something to him; he couldn't seem to speak, or move, even when Thomas reached over and touched Casey's face. With that touch Casey realized that there were still more tears on his face and that Thomas was stroking them away, his hands every bit as gentle as Zeke's had ever been.

"Will you let the door shut now?" Thomas asked.

It will be good so safe and quiet, you see, Casey...see it, see what I'm seeing it's us in the back seat you and I and I'm filling you, finally, with a kind of silence you've only dreamed about, not that temporary, brittle silence that he gives you, the real thing this time...the last time.

Casey moved his hands and feet completely inside the car and wondered if he would ever see Zeke again.

"Why are you so sad?" Thomas asked quietly.

"I — don't know — "

"You are safe with me, you know."

"I know," Casey said, and he knew without having to think about it that it was true.

"Do you want to tell me about 'them?' How did they hurt you?"

"No..." With a violent shake of his head, Casey grabbed onto Thomas' hand and held it to his face. Thomas smiled obligingly and Casey leaned in towards him, almost resting against his side. He couldn't see Thomas' smile anymore, but he sensed it, especially when Thomas touched his hair.

"You are a very tired boy, I think," Thomas commented.

There was no stopping this now.

Casey moved Thomas' hand that he was holding, placing it on his thigh. He just let it rest there. He said, "And you like boys, don't you?"

Thomas seemed to go utterly still, not even breathing. "I like men...and women."

"But...you like me?"

"Of course I like you..."

Casey slid his own hand up towards Thomas' groin, seeking the hardness and heat that he knew was within his grasp. Quickly Thomas took his hand off Casey's leg and gripped the wrist in question, bringing him to a stop just out of range of his target. "What are you doing?" Thomas asked, his voice booming in that close space. His grip on Casey's wrist was nearly painful.

"You know," Casey whispered.

"Do I?"

"I'm having a real bad night, Thomas, and...I am tired like you say and I just want quiet...I know you can give it to me."

Thomas said, his voice strained, "Quiet is not my specialty."

Casey felt a tingle of doubt and crammed it as far down as he could. He could not have misjudged this situation, he could not have misjudged Thomas...because Thomas was interested in him, he could tell. There was no mistaking that and there was no going back. Casey said, "I know what you want, I know why you brought me here."

"Child, do you know that I'm thirty years older than you?"

"I don't care."

"But I do...and I can't do this." Thomas released his grip, freeing Casey's wrist. He took Casey's shoulders firmly and pressed him back into his seat, opening a space of a few feet between them. "And you can't either."

"Yes, I can!" Casey insisted, pushing against Thomas' hands. Everything was getting blurry but there was still an image of himself and Thomas in his head, he was scrabbling desperately to hang onto it while Thomas, with his long reach and greater strength, was having no trouble keeping it at bay. "I want to!"

"I know you'd like to think so."

"You're into me, you have to be."

Thomas sounded both amused and sad. "Do I?"

"Because you're one of them and I know how you are, you can't let me get away again."

"This insanity of yours is extremely fascinating, Mr. Casey. All right. You are of course extremely attractive and if I thought for a moment that you really wanted me and not revenge on your boyfriend, I might accept your offer. But I don't particularly want to hurt anyone...so I will ask you to keep to your side of the car now, please."

Thomas removed his hands, letting them rest in his lap.

That image blurred, went so distorted that for some time Casey wasn't sure where he was...then he blinked hard and found himself almost flattened against the car door with no recall of how he had gotten there. And with a stranger across from him. The magical vibes Casey had been getting earlier seemed to have vanished and in their place was a coldness.

"I think you should go home now," Thomas said, looking away from Casey, out the front windshield.

"I c-can't," Casey choked.

"Yes, you can. It's where you belong, trust me."

Despite the warmth blasting from the vents, Casey's teeth had begun to chatter. He put his hands in his pockets and shivered.

"Will you be all right?" Thomas asked him, with a trace of concern.

"Yeah...sh...sure."

"You will not...go in search of someone else?"

Casey almost gasped at the question; but from Thomas' perspective it was a fair one. "N-no," he stammered. "It was just — you."

"I am flattered. Truly." Thomas looked at him at last, but with a face that was almost blank. Casey wondered if he had murdered the real Thomas with his appalling, sluttish behaviour. "I think that from now on we should only meet at Zorba's. Do you agree?"

Thomas' stare was more than Casey could handle. It understood him completely and left him too ashamed to speak. He hoped that he nodded a reply because Thomas was right; Zeke couldn't find out what he had done and there must be no other similar opportunities for Casey to debase himself. It was all well and good to talk about trust, but if Zeke knew that he had just thrown himself at this man-alien, it would be the end.

"You really do think I'm one of them, don't you?" Thomas said, cocking his head with evident curiosity.

"I...don't know."

"Perhaps you could tell me about them and we could sort it out."

Casey gulped, "Zeke doesn't think I should talk about it."

"Zeke is your boyfriend?"

Casey nodded.

"Well, if Zeke thinks that you mustn't talk about it, then clearly it must be talked about."

"He doesn't want me to be hurt," Casey muttered.

"No, it is more than that." Some warmth had leeched back into Thomas' eyes. "I feel terrible for your Zeke. He must be so frightened."

"Why?" Casey knew, logically, that Zeke must be frightened sometimes because everyone got frightened, but in his heart it was difficult to accept that Zeke knew fear the way that Casey did.

"When you possess something that you treasure above everything else you condemn yourself to insecurity. The emotion of possession is born in fear and constantly reforms itself from fear."

Casey thought about that. He was sure he didn't quite grasp it the way Thomas intended, but in a way he did. He did understand possession. Feeling possessed was the safest feeling in the world and it was worth it even if you had to earn that safety by feeling continually endangered by the threat of being alone. Casey hadn't given much thought to the other side of it, though. He knew that Zeke was worried and stressed, and that it showed in his controlling ways...and once he thought about that, another thought occurred to him, that Zeke was no longer that guy from high school who stayed calm through any crisis. Maybe high school Zeke could keep his cool because he hadn't had much to lose.

"I apologize," Thomas said then. "That was the psychoanalyst in me talking."

"It's okay," Casey said. "I...wish you were my shrink."

Thomas laughed out loud. His laughter had a frantic, almost violent edge that made Casey think quickly about jumping out of the car. "Oh, believe me, I am not fit to be anyone's shrink!" Then Thomas' gaze fell upon Casey and the false mirth disappeared in an instant. "I think it's time for you to go, Treasure. My battery is going to die shortly and your Zeke will be desperate to find you." He gave Casey a little push. "Go."

Casey groped for the latch to the door and almost fell as it swung open. He gained his feet, shocked by the heavy chill outside. Before he could say a word of gratitude or apology, Thomas stretched across the front seat, just reaching the door handle and pulled the door shut in front of Casey. The car's engine started, and Thomas drove away, leaving Casey staring at the red brake lights.

He shrank inside Zeke's jacket, pushing his hands deeper into the pockets. One thing he knew: He wanted to go home now and he couldn't. How could he look at Zeke knowing he was such complete filth? He had been prepared to let Thomas do anything to him despite what Thomas — maybe — was. No, the horrific truth was he had wanted Thomas to do anything to him because of what Thomas — probably — was. He ran from one monster and willingly fell into the embrace of another and he didn't know what that meant except that he was pretty well fucked in the head.

Casey started walking. The slight warmth he had absorbed from Thomas' car was already faded and he was rapidly getting numb with cold but he didn't want to see Zeke and he especially didn't want to see the Beast. Rushing home wouldn't help, if he was losing Zeke it was probably too late already and he deserved it besides. But he wouldn't rush home so the two of them could do something terrible to him either, and even if both scenarios were wrong he still had to be able to face Zeke, which he didn't think he could do. Not yet. He was a fairly accomplished liar but this would require all of his skill and stamina.

A patch of green hove into view. Casey looked up, saw the park that he had once visited with his father. He took the familiar path and sat on that same cement bench. It felt like a slab of ice, and he was sitting on it wearing only a thin t-shirt under Zeke's jacket, and with no socks because he'd been in such a panic to get out of the house that he didn't have time for them. So he supposed he was going to freeze as solid as the marble fountain in the centre of the park; he could only try to stave it off. He folded his arms, tucked his hands together inside the sleeves of the jacket and rocked, trying to generate a little warmth.

Hooray for progress, for getting to the point where no one had to tell him how fucked up he was. He knew, thank you very much, Dr. Yves. He was beginning to see the landscape of it even; the particular hills and valleys were forming under his feet. There was the part where he let himself deteriorate from a lack of food and proper sleep until he couldn't think straight. There was the part were the present and the past melted into each other and he was helpless to stop it. And there was the part where he had just thrown himself at a virtual stranger — a beautiful, fascinating stranger, but a stranger nonetheless. He was that desperate, that needy, and he hadn't been caring about what could have happened to him. When the day came that he was alone, he was going to end up with any jerk, human or alien, who happened to cross his path and was willing to pull out a prick and use it. Or a series of jerks, and if he was lucky, they would be kind. If not...His future could be a terrible, lonely, frightening place, much more terrible, lonely and frightening than his present. Contrary to appearances, he didn't want that.

He heard his name — that was his name, wasn't it? Yes, he was being called, summoned, and this time it was definitely Zeke. He was some distance away, but approaching rapidly; he must have been running. Casey flattened his feet on the path, almost ready to flee. He wanted to be found with all his heart, but...he was so dirty, he was a thing entirely of filth.

"Casey!"

At the sound of Zeke's voice so nearby, longing burst inside Casey. There was no question of not going to him, and if Zeke looked at him and knew instantly what he had done...well, there was nothing to be done about it.

Casey got up and walked to the end of the path where it met the sidewalk, just as Zeke came jogging up, puffing hard. The expression on Zeke's face just before he caught sight of Casey was something Casey had never thought to see; it was the contemplation of some terrible doom. It was lost, embarrassing, not in the least bit elegant.

"Casey — " Zeke gulped, skidding to a stop.

He almost tackled Casey, burying him in his chest, hugging him so hard that he couldn't breathe. It went on and on until Casey was forced to try to move, to catch some oxygen, and Zeke loosened his grip.

The questions began, coming at him rapid-fire. "Are you okay? Are you hurt? Where did you go?"

"I — "

"Why did you do that, do you know what you just did to me?" Zeke looked up at the night sky for a minute, then down at Casey with a shimmer in his eyes, and suddenly he began shouting. "I didn't know where you were, I thought you might be gone for good, do you realize? Do you ever think before you do these things, do you have any idea how it feels to be me?!"

"Yeah," Casey whispered. "I do."

Zeke blinked, his face going flat. His mouth became a thin, unstable line. He faltered, "I...need to sit down."

He hauled Casey to the nearby bench and sat, pulling Casey down beside him; one long arm circled Casey, hugging him to his side. Casey let his fingers wind into Zeke's sweater, closing his eyes. For once Zeke seemed to not want to talk, and Casey was more than content with that; they sat quietly together until Casey's violent shivering became impossible to ignore. Actually, it was their combined shivering, Casey realized.

"I'm cold," he said.

Zeke murmured, "That jacket isn't as warm as it looks."

"Um...s-sorry I — "

"No, I don't care. Unless, of course, you were planning to...to burn it or throw it in a dumpster."

"It crossed m-my...mind," Casey said, trying some humour. It fell entirely flat and he abandoned the experiment.

"Let's go home," was all that Zeke said in response.

Casey knew he shouldn't ask, but at the same time he knew that he wouldn't be able to stop himself. "Is sh-she gone?"

"Yes," Zeke replied patiently. "She's gone." After a moment he sighed, "I might as well tell you now so we can get all the fights done and over with today...I invited her to my birthday party."

He paused to give Casey the opportunity to flip out, and somewhere within himself Casey was very appropriately doing that. However, at this moment it was much more important that he be as good as he could possibly be. He decided he would not remember that Zeke had told him this for at least a few days. It would come nowhere near atonement for what he had done...but he could at least try not to hurt Zeke anymore today.

When there was no response from Casey, Zeke started to explain, "It was one of those situations — "

"It's-s...okay," Casey interrupted.

"Say what?"

"It's okay...c-can we just go home?"

Zeke said wonderingly, "Sure...yeah." He untwisted himself from Casey and stood up. For a moment he just waited, looking very tall from Casey's vantage point; then he stuck out his hand.

Bemused, Casey stared at the hand for several seconds before taking it. Zeke had become a lot more touchy-feely than he used to but he just wasn't the type of guy who held hands for the sake of holding hands...all the way home, too. There weren't many people around but Casey had the sense that Zeke wouldn't have cared. He just didn't seem to want to let go.

When they were back home Zeke immediately began the process of undressing. He pulled his sweater haphazardly over his head, then reached over and gently removed Casey's numb hands from the zipper on his leather jacket. "Let me," he said. Shortly, both the jacket and the inside-out sweater had been abandoned on the floor in the hallway.

In the bathroom, Zeke peeled off Casey's damp t-shirt and knelt down to help him step out of his pants. He chuckled to discover that Casey wasn't wearing underwear. "Going commando these days?" he asked Casey.

Casey knew that he was trying to be playful, but all the same it was a bit embarrassing to think back to his madness of a mere hours ago. "I was in a hurry," he muttered.

Zeke straightened up and put his arms around Casey, his former grin having completely disappeared. "Case," he sighed. "Why can't you stop being afraid?"

The answer to that question was one that Zeke wouldn't like, so Casey remained silent.

Zeke sighed again, and went about removing his own clothing. When he was naked himself they got into the shower and just stood together under the spray, getting warm. Zeke was aroused all the while but Casey allowed himself no expectations of what was going to happen. He would be grateful if Zeke were to kiss him, ecstatic to receive an actual caress.

But what Zeke wanted to do, it seemed, was wash him. Zeke lathered up a sponge and started to smooth it over every bit of Casey's skin, transcribing circles and random overlapping shapes like he intended to polish his flesh to a fragrant gloss. Maybe Zeke could see how truly rank and stained he was. It must be coming out of his pores and naturally Zeke wanted to make him clean...if only it weren't such a wasted effort.

"What is it?" Zeke whispered when Casey started to shudder and press in closer.

Casey shook his head, keeping it buried against Zeke's chest. He couldn't very well say, Oh, nothing...just betrayed you with some guy. Again. Or was he an alien? Can't really be sure but I kinda think he is an alien and I really could use some professional help here.

"It's okay," Zeke said. "I know."

He didn't know, but it didn't much matter because his hands were travelling, playing up and down Casey's back, gradually moving lower. With a sigh, Casey rested his cheek and his hands flat on Zeke's chest and did his best not to disturb the tentative equilibrium he sensed between them. He felt Zeke's lips near his ear and arched slightly, lengthening his neck, but otherwise did not move.

"I was thinking..." Zeke murmured. His hands stopped their motion and just rested on Casey's ass. "Do...do you love me, Casey?"

Sweet, warm, wet skin, strong hands and arms holding him willingly despite everything he had done and said...tolerance and protection and, yes, possession. "Yes," Casey breathed.

"And I love you so I think...I think this must be okay...somehow."

"It is okay...It is."

Once again, Zeke's hands were beginning to move against Casey's skin. "I don't want to talk anymore," he declared. "Not today."

"Kay."

"Just...don't ever run away from me again, Casey."

Casey nodded fervently.

"Can we use soap? Is that okay?"

In answer, Casey put one foot up on the narrow bit of tub where the shower door met it so Zeke could gain better access to him. Two soapy fingers sought his body's opening, circling, teasing him gently. Soon they were breaching the tight muscle, scissoring gently to open him. He worked his body to take Zeke's fingers deep inside him while he braced himself with hands against the wall and the shower door and it was so good, so good...wonderful and real and he silently thanked Thomas for kicking him out of his car.

It happened almost casually, Zeke turning him and letting him put his hands flat against the far wall. A single thrust impaled him with a rod of painful heat, pushed him forward, caught him off guard so that he almost lost his balance. Zeke waited until he was steady, and wrapping an arm around his middle, began to move slowly, each thrust seeming to go further, deeper, filling him and thoroughly taking him. It was not comfortable, yet his entire self was electrified, pleasure spreading out from his centre and overwhelming his senses.

He didn't know how long it had been when his ears tuned into the sound of someone moaning — himself, and there were gasped words from behind and above him, an arm across his chest and a hand gripping his shoulder. Water dripped onto his wet back; moisture made Zeke's legs sleek against the back of his thighs as Zeke thrust and thrust again, grunting with the effort of partly holding him up, legs and arms shaking. Suddenly Zeke's muscles weren't up to the task; when Casey's knees gave way, they both went down. He landed rather hard on the porcelain, the impact taken by his knees and one elbow which then slipped so that his upper arm and chin bore the brunt instead.

Zeke's arm hugged him back against his chest. With their bodies separate again he could feel Zeke's cock scalding his backside and he was aching, afraid that he might just break apart from the terrible emptiness. "You okay?" Zeke whispered.

"Yes."

"Sounded like it hurt."

He nodded his agreement with that. "'s okay. Finish."

"How do you want it?"

"Um...we could..."

It was something new for him but Casey didn't hesitate; he rose up on his knees and, with Zeke's help, guided himself back onto the slick, erect cock. There wasn't much in the way of lubrication now and his insides felt abraded but he ignored it, biting his lip and pressing on until he was almost seated on Zeke's lap but tilted forward at the necessary angle, clinging to the edge of the tub.

A loud knock on the door made them both jerk in surprise. "Hey!" Sasha's voice said. "Are you guys in there?"

"Fucking unbelievable," Zeke hissed. He raised his voice, "Yeah!"

"You left your stuff lying in the middle of the floor."

Neither of them had a response to that. Zeke's cock was like concrete stuffed inside Casey and he knew this was going to hurt more than Zeke would be comfortable with if he found out, so it would be important not to make any noise...doubly important because Zeke had a dread of Sasha hearing anything.

"Well, whatever you're doing, finish it up and get out here," Sasha finished. Casey decided to assume that for the next few minutes his friend was going to avoid standing outside the bathroom door.

Zeke's hand stroked Casey's neck, telling him that he was ready if Casey was. Casey forced himself to breathe and began to ride Zeke, rising and almost unsheathing Zeke each time before slowly taking him back within. Each motion was like a long scrape of misery, punctuated by a brief stab of ecstacy. He tried to concentrate on the pleasure and ignore the pain, continuing to move while his sight was blurred by tears. Eventually a first cry was driven from him, and then a second, evading all his efforts to be quiet. Zeke's hand slipped over to cover his mouth. The other hand found his erection and worked it in tandem and then finally Casey was no longer feeling the pain; he was surrendering hard and he threw himself into the motion, squeezing and milking Zeke's cock, riding a wave of euphoria, barely knowing what his body was doing or what was being done to it.

Awareness returned with the pain-sparks of Zeke thrusting up and spilling liquid heat inside him while clutching his shoulder and delivering a spate of moist expletives to the back of his neck. Casey slumped back against Zeke, gasping, every muscle quivering.

It had to be entire minutes they just stayed like that with Zeke still inside him. When he did finally move he had to bite down on his lip to keep from crying from the pain. Zeke had to help him to stand up.

His skin was clammy, chilled from being out of contact with the water's heat. He glued himself to Zeke, quite certain that if he let go he would fall and be lost. In fact, he might just be lost already. He clung to the only thing in his vicinity that was real, dug his fingers into Zeke's flesh. That elicited a grunt of discomfort and he was forced to ease off a bit. He felt himself being steered back under the shower spray. It was tepid; he made a sound of protest. Zeke adjusted the temperature so that the spray became, if not hot, at least warm. Finally, he wrapped himself around Casey and resumed plying that hand up and down his back like it was the whole purpose of being here and they'd just taken a temporary break from it.

"I hate what I said to you today," Zeke said abruptly.

"'s okay," Casey whispered. He couldn't manage more than that. Besides, Zeke hadn't said anything that wasn't true.

"I've never been so scared in my life," Zeke added, and he sounded utterly drained. "Never."

"I'm sorry, Zeke." Casey's voice was a near croak. "I'm...I'm so sorry."

"Do you really know? I don't think you do, or you wouldn't do things like that."

"S-sorry."

"I see you sometimes...how you look like you just want to do the most reckless thing possible, just go over the edge. You can't do that, Casey. I won't let you."

"Zeke?"

"Hmm."

"I...can I..."

"Just say it, Case."

"I want to talk to Yves about the aliens."

Zeke stilled just for a second. His hand paused, then resumed its methodical caress. His body tautened. "No," he said. "No, Casey. No."

That was the end of that conversation.

They exited the bathroom wrapped in towels for decency since Sasha was around. Casey just wanted to sleep, but he knew Sasha was going to want to talk to him. To get Sasha out of the apartment earlier, he had promised to tell him everything but it was probably better if Zeke didn't know about that.

Casey put on a t-shirt and sweats and went out to the kitchen, disguising the stiffness in his body as best he could. He hadn't been sore like this for a long time; he suspected that if Zeke had taken any longer to come, he would have been bleeding. He just hoped he wouldn't have to sit down.

He found Sasha at the table, setting down dessert plates. "I brought pie," he said, and there was indeed half a pie of a lovely deep golden brown and a spray- can of whipped cream. "It's Jerry's mother's recipe. It's really good."

"Oh...yummy."

Sasha lowered his voice. "Are you sleeping with Zeke tonight?"

"Yes. Sasha — "

"Tomorrow," Sasha allowed, waving a hand magnanimously. "We'll talk tomorrow." When Casey shifted with discomfort, Sasha misunderstood the reason. He lifted his chin and said, "You promised me, kitten. That was the only reason I was willing to leave you alone."

Casey opened his mouth to tell him not to worry, that he would keep his word, when Zeke walked in. He put his hands on Casey's shoulders from behind and bent down to kiss him somewhere around his ear. Straightening up, he inquired, "Is that pumpkin pie?"

"It most certainly is," Sasha replied.

"Fuckin' A." Zeke dropped into his chair. "Case? Are you going to have some?"

"Mmm." Casey sat gingerly, carefully maintaining a composed mask of neutrality. It was a good thing that he liked pumpkin pie; it was the only thing that kept him in his chair.

Sasha glanced at him, then glanced again. "What happened to your chin?" he asked.

Casey put his hand there, surprised. "What?"

"There's a mark."

"Oh, I...slipped in the tub."

"Hmm..."

Zeke added, "Yeah, I was there. It sounded bad."

Evidently, Sasha didn't much like the scenario that Zeke invoked with his words; he turned quickly to a more palatable subject. Two large pieces of pie were cut and covered liberally with whipped cream. He slid on the plates across the table to his roommates.

Zeke attacked his piece immediately, cutting off the tip and almost half of the piece at once. From the look on his face, he found the taste to his liking. Sometimes he was like a child with food. It would make Casey think about Zeke when he really was a kid, rattling around that huge house by himself, making himself canned soup and toast because it was all that he could manage. It was probably not the reality but it was how Casey pictured it. It was important to remember, to know that Zeke too had been left alone.

"This is good," Zeke said, around a mouthful.

Sasha sat down and folded his arms, looking satisfied.

"Aren't you having any?" Zeke mumbled.

"I already did." Sasha groaned and patted his stomach. "And Jerry's mom made me eat a whole other turkey dinner before that. I'm ready to burst."

Casey put hand to fork and fork to pie and tried not to think about how much everything hurt. He thought about how the pie was good but not as good as the sweet potatoes had been, and how it really had been very nice of Charly to go to the trouble...

He looked furtively at Zeke just in case he could sense when someone was having charitable thoughts about Charly, but Zeke was quite occupied with eating. He paused only long enough to gave Casey a weary smile and Casey immediately cast his eyes down.

"Tired, kitten?"

He must have sighed out loud. He nodded at Sasha.

"Me, too," Zeke said. "But I should do some work before I go to sleep."

"Oh, take a night off," Sasha urged. "You could use it, I'm sure."

Zeke shook his head. "Can't. There's one due in a few days that I haven't even started yet. I promise I'm not going to be at it for long, that's for sure." He held out his plate. "More?"

Sasha complied, cutting off another, larger piece and putting it on Zeke's plate. Casey was halfway through his own piece, very tempted to scrape all of the pumpkin matter and whipped cream off the crust and just eat that. He didn't think that would go over well though.

"I feel bad about the way we left Charly's," Sasha announced.

"Yeah, well," Zeke replied absently. He reached for the can of whipped cream and built a mountain of white mousse on his pie, demonstrating no remorse whatsoever over the debacle at Charly's house. "She'll just have more dessert to herself then."

"I think someone should phone and apologize."

Zeke retorted, "Someone can do whatever he likes."

Casey knew that someone definitely excluded himself. He had his marching orders and he wouldn't defy them now; he could barely find the will to raise his head and if that made him a coward, so be it. All he wanted out of the rest of this day was — without chemical assistance  to fall asleep in some comfort and that required continuing harmonious relations been himself and Zeke. Besides, he didn't have the right to question Zeke's behaviour, not when he was already pushing the envelope by having the gall to sit here with Zeke and Sasha and eat pie as though he wasn't the debased, dishonest creature that he was.

Putting his fork down, Casey said, "Thanks for...for the pie."

"No problem, kitten."

He got up, trying his utmost to not hobble like an old man. He thought he'd done reasonably well with that until he glanced up and saw Sasha gazing intently at him. He stammered, "I'm really t-tired...think I'll go to bed...I'll do the dishes to-tomorrow, okay?"

"It's just a couple of plates, I'll take of them. See you in the morning, kitten."

Zeke shovelled the last of four enormous bites into his mouth and jumped up to follow Casey. "Thanks, Sasha," he mumbled.

In their room, Casey wasted no time creeping into the bed; it felt a lot more luxurious than he remembered. The only thing he lacked was Zeke in the bed with him but Zeke was sitting on the computer chair, apparently determined to do a bit more homework today. Casey pulled the covers up to his chin and watched Zeke from behind as the computer booted up.

"Fuck, but I'm beat," Zeke said, his back still to Casey.

"Sasha's right," Casey said, yawning. "You should just crash."

Zeke spun the desk chair around and asked, "Is that what you would do?"

"Um...I..."

"What? Just say it."

"Would have started earlier and h-had most of it done already...and then yeah, I would take today off."

A wry grin pulled at Zeke's mouth. "Okay, I asked." He just looked at Casey for a moment, then said, "You know, I was wondering...I have two papers drafted now, would you take a look at them?"

"Sure...can do it tomorrow."

"Case?"

"Yeah."

"Have you made a decision about going back to school?"

Casey closed his eyes, tugging the covers up higher even. "I don't...no, I guess not."

"Is your dad giving you a hard time?"

"Not really...don't want to think about this right now."

"All right," Zeke said softly. "Go to sleep. I'm going to try to do this for a little while."

Casey was more than able to sleep, even without Zeke in the bed; having Zeke in the same room and being on speaking terms with him was enough. The sleep was anything but restful, however. He dreamed, and it was one of those protracted, anxious dreams that seemed to go on for years. Thomas and Winona were his parents and they all lived in Charly's house for some reason; there was a long segment where they were busy cutting clippings out of newspapers. The topics were all the sort that drew skepticism or pity, or both...Elvis was alive and working for Donald Trump, the world's fattest man sat on his dog and killed him, the pyramids were actually a space station and the government was plotting to turn everyone into vegetarians.

But that segment ended when he finally saw his parents in their alien form. In the dream their alien form looked exactly like they looked the rest of the time — yet different. He ran away when he saw them. Some of the time he seemed to be looking for Zeke but the rest of the time he was just on the streets running, constantly feeling like something was behind him. Of course, in that nonsensical way of dreams he kept stopping to do nonsensical things, like to return some movies or buy party favours for Zeke, even though he was always watching for them, waiting for them to appear.

Then suddenly he rounded a corner and there was Thomas, holding a casserole dish full of sweet potatoes. Thomas asked Casey to come with him to his car and Casey had no choice but to go. The whole time that he was walking to the car he was crying loudly but no one who passed them on the street said anything, except Sasha who was wearing his chef's tunic and stopped him along the way to ask him if he'd returned his movies. He was still sobbing when he got in the car. Thomas began to touch him and laid down on top of him, keeping him immobile with his long, powerful limbs; Casey struggled but his body just wouldn't work for him.

Thomas asked him, "Why are you so sad?"

"I've done a bad thing," he sobbed. "Zeke hates me."

"Zeke doesn't hate you," Thomas soothed. He licked away some of Casey's tears. "In fact, he's really happy we met."

It made no sense at all and Casey said something like, "How do you know?"

"Well, you can ask him yourself."

He managed to lift his head and look into the back seat and Zeke was sitting there. He was wearing a friendly grin. "Hi," he said.

That was when Casey made himself wake up. His eyes popped open to the first, dull light, just beginning to enter the room. Zeke was tucked up behind him, his arm snug around Casey's waist, his deep, peaceful breath warming Casey's neck, and Casey felt reasonably certain that he was about to die.

Ignoring the stiff discomfort in his body, he pulled himself from Zeke's clutch with little thought of how to do it without waking him. His heart was going furiously as he scuttled into the bathroom, turned on the light and grabbed his precious bottle of pills. There were only two portions of peace-of-mind left. He gulped down one, inhaled water and spent some time with his head down over the sink, gripping the porcelain with both hands while he tried to get his lungs sorted out. When he straightened up, Zeke was in the mirror behind him and he jumped, making a noise somewhere between a yelp and a scream.

"My bad," Zeke said, his voice gruff from sleep. He put a hand on Casey's shoulder, steadying him. His hair was mussed; he looked not even half awake. "Why're you up?"

Casey would have thought that it was obvious. "Panic attack starting," he said.

"Oh." Zeke blinked. "C'mere."

Casey shook his head. "Let's just go back to bed," he pleaded.

There was an edge of hysteria in his voice that Zeke, thankfully, didn't seem to notice — or if he did, he was far too used to it to consider it worth losing sleep over. They returned to their bed and Casey burrowed back into Zeke's arms, wishing there was someway to slip right under Zeke's skin. Zeke put his leg over Casey's and bundled him close, making noises of contentment. "Better?" he sighed, already drifting back towards unconsciousness.

"Mm hmm," Casey said, but it was not better, not yet. He hung on and waited for Xanax to work its magic. His last thought before achieving sedation was that it was never going to actually get better until he did something other than run away...he had to do something to get better, he had to...something brave, he would do it, he had to do it...

It was the scent of coffee that woke him and the daylight on his face. "Wakey, wakey," sang Sasha's voice, right next to him.

He peeled his eyes open. The coffee was right beneath his nose, in a mug that Sasha was waving around. Sasha was reclined next to him, fully dressed, and Zeke was absent.

"What time?" Casey mumbled.

"Almost noon."

"Where's Zeke?"

"He was whining about the library being closed today, something about there being too many distractions here or something, so I kinda...I suggested he should go find a coffee shop to work in...and he did. Took a bunch of books with him, too. Said he'll be back in a few hours."

Casey could have said a few words on the subject of temptation himself, especially given the rich, ambrosial aroma emanating from the mug that Sasha was holding. Casey tried not to breath very much while he asked, "Why you...sticking that in my face?"

"To wake you up?"

"That's mean, Sasha."

"Oh, but it's for you, kitten."

Casey half-rose on one elbow. "Really?"

"Really, really. But you have to get up and follow me out to the living room."

Casey threw back the covers intending to get up right away, but a short, sharp shock in a very private place caused him to wince. "Okay," he said, instantly slowing down the process of leaving the bed.

Sasha was upright and heading out the bedroom door, saying, "Then I'll see you at oh-twelve-hundred — sharp."

With the room to himself, Casey was at liberty to creak and groan but, thankfully, once he was on his feet and moving around, it wasn't really that bad. He just a bit sore; it wasn't something that had never happened to him before, it would pass. And it was worth it. Even if there was some discomfort, even if Sasha was lurking in the other room right now waiting for him to come out and confess all — that was price and he was willing to pay it. He would not tell Sasha everything, of course, but he would be expected to have an explanation for the fact that he'd had trouble sitting down last night. He would just say that they had gotten a bit enthusiastic, which was nothing but the truth.

He crept to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Looking into the mirror, he was startled to see the bruise on his chin, and with the clarity of a brain no longer limping and hiccoughing with fatigue, he remembered things...things that hadn't exactly been forgotten, just not yet recalled. It was like watching a film playing in reverse...falling to his knees in the shower, getting in the shower quaking with chill and raw need, but before that running away, running around in the fog too afraid to go home, running into Thomas...

Casey uttered a tiny, anguished moan. It was the sound of a person appalled by himself.

His mind filled with the reality that he was filthy, absolutely nauseating; he wanted to lock the door, stay in here until Sasha had to go to work...but there was no point to that when Zeke was going to return within a few hours. Ultimately, Casey couldn't escape from either of them. If only he could disbelieve what he remembered...but he couldn't. He didn't know how to face Sasha and he certainly didn't know how to face Zeke. Not that he wasn't perfectly capable of hiding this. No, that was the problem. He could go on lying, day after day after day. He was long past disbelief at his own actions, he just didn't know how to manage the horror he felt of himself.

His eyes had begun to leak. He spit and rinsed and splashed cold water on his face, then just stood there in front of the sink, trembling.

"Kitten!" Sasha shouted. "Coffee's getting cold!"

Casey knew that Sasha would come looking for him next; he turned away and dragged his feet all the way to the living room. Sasha was sitting on the couch, facing sideways with one leg up and one dangling. He had his own mug in his hand; the other was sitting on the table. He smiled at Casey and patted the spot on the couch beside him.

"There you go," he said, gesturing to the coffee cup while Casey complied with instructions. "I fixed it up just the way you like it, I think. I figured it would be a nice treat and you're right, one cup probably isn't going to hurt you."

"Thank you," Casey whispered.

"No problem, kitten. I'm afraid sometimes that I'm too rigid with some of this healthy stuff. I'm going to try to be a little more flexible. I mean, you are an adult and you could just as easily tell us all to shove it, right?"

Casey managed a tiny nod. He lifted the mug and took a slurp. It tasted every bit as delicious as he had expected, far more delicious than he could possibly deserve.

"I sometimes think Zeke and I are the ones who need the shrinks and you're just too tolerant of our craziness. Like that performance of Zeke's yesterday, that was just so..."

Sasha trailed off, probably because he'd finally noticed that Casey was weeping.

"God, what is it?"

Casey glanced up and saw Sasha's face full of recognition and understanding and willing-to-listen-ness. Full, chest-rattling sobs began to fill his throat, choking him. "S-Sasha — "

"What, Casey — ?"

He couldn't contain this. He was gripping his coffee with two hands and still the surface of the liquid was choppy, the mug very close to becoming another casualty of the Casey Connor melodrama and this time the brown stain would be on the rug and it would be even harder to get out and Sasha would be so...so...he would —

With great caution, Casey lowered his mug and placed it on the nearby table.

"Kitten, you're scaring me here. Talk to me immediately."

Casey threw himself upon Sasha's shoulder, just barely getting the words through the constriction in his throat: "I — I've done s-something — awful!"

Sasha instantly launched into consolation, cuddling him and rocking him, saying, "Oh, kitten...oh, my, it can't be that bad, come on...shh...shh..."

"It — it's — "

"Shh."

"I'm — "

"Okay, kitten, just let it go, and when you're done with this, then you can tell me."

Casey just let it go.

Some time later he was limp and sodden, lying in the crook of Sasha's arm, and Sasha was using his other hand to stroke Casey, smoothing his palm up and down Casey's arm with nothing but tenderness. Casey's eyes were swollen and sore and he wasn't necessarily done crying yet, there were plenty more tears in him — but at least now he could talk. He had to talk, or he would shatter.

"Done something terrible," he muttered.

"That's what you said...but I'd like to know what this terrible thing is."

"I don't know...how to..."

"You just start, kitten. You can tell me anything, remember?"

Casey let out a shuddering, miserable breath; so he would tell Sasha and probably in a minute or so Sasha wouldn't be quite so willing to hold him and pet him. Sasha would be disgusted, but that was the natural result of being disgusting.

"There's this man," Casey started.

He felt Sasha tense slightly.

"I've run into him a c-couple times at Zorba's...his name's Thomas, he...he would keep coming up and talking to me and I thought — I was sure that he was into me and yesterday after you went to Jerry's — "

Casey stopped, because everything he'd been thinking at that point was just a gnarled, tangled mess and he didn't know which thread to pull on first.

"Yes?" Sasha prompted. "What happened?"

The tears were rallying to overtake him again. "Sasha...I'm so fucked up, I...I need...help."

"You have help, kitten. You have me and Zeke, and Dr. Chakri and Dr. Yves — "

"I didn't go."

"Huh?"

"On Tuesday...I lied to you, I didn't go to see Dr. Yves and — and I haven't been to relaxation therapy for over a week."

Sasha didn't speak for several seconds and Casey was certain that he was about to be thrown at the other end of the couch — but that didn't happen. Sasha just said quietly, "Why?"

"It just doesn't work, I can't relax that way — "

"Forget about the relaxation stuff for now. I mean why didn't you go to see Dr. Yves."

Casey wondered if he should move out of Sasha's embrace and sit apart from him. He attempted to do that, only to be met with a grunt of refusal. Staying put, he answered, "Remember how I told you that...um, I haven't talked to her about the aliens."

"Yes. And that Zeke is dead set against it."

"And so am I...or...I was, I guess..."

"We've hashed this out before, kitten." Sasha gave him an encouraging squeeze. "You want to always be in agreement with Zeke, but he's wrong about this, Casey. You know he is."

Casey whispered, "Yeah."

Squeezing him again, Sasha said, "Good for you, I know it's hard for you to say that."

It had been far too easy to say, actually. So he had betrayed Zeke all over again, and having received this admission from him, Sasha was pressing on, determined to extract more information before this bizarre, forthright mood of Casey's dissolved. "So can you tell me what happened when Zeke went with you to see Dr. Yves?"

Casey recognized that he was at risk of revealing something very dangerous, that he was endangered just as he had been in Yves' office — so he needed that physical separation now. He squirmed out of Sasha's hold and kept his face averted while he spoke. "Zeke wanted...to show me how I could go there and do therapy without talking about aliens, he just wanted to talk about...about Roy, and...and it made me so mad..."

"I guess it would," was Sasha's comment.

"I took off before the session was even done and walked home...When Zeke got home we had a fight and I...I didn't mean it but I said I wanted to tell Yves about the aliens. I did it to scare Zeke...and I did scare him."

"Oh, kitten."

"And then yesterday...after you went to Jerry's we...we were..." God, this was humiliating, but he couldn't not say this, he didn't know how to tell the story otherwise. "I wanted to have sex and he thought we shouldn't because I was still mad at him and then I got even more mad at him...and then sh-she showed up."

"She?"

"W-Winona." Casey had to hide his eyes again, putting his hand over them as though blindfolding himself would somehow hide him from Sasha. "And yes, I'm crazy, I know I'm crazy because I just lose it every time Zeke says her name and when he's at school with her...I keep thinking things."

"It's kind of understandable — "

"But you don't know how I...I wanted to go to the school and watch him, Sasha...and she came here yesterday wanting to talk to Zeke and I totally freaked out — I know when I'm freaking out and that I act like a complete mental case but I can't help it, I can't bear to think about her w-with Zeke."

Casey made himself glance at Sasha, certain that he would see disgust and revulsion. Yep, he thought that he saw those feelings, and pity, too, so Casey decided to let Sasha know just how pitiful he was.

He resumed, "Zeke said he was going to talk to her because she was upset and I wasn't making any sense and I was acting like this — this slut who couldn't control himself, I got mad when he wouldn't fuck me."

"Casey," Sasha murmured, sounding pained.

"H-he couldn't take it anymore so he went up on the roof with her and I ran away, I just thought the worst things and I was so mad at Zeke I wanted to punish him...I figured...I thought h-he didn't want me...and then I ran into Thomas on the street and he's so strange, he's always so strange but kinda really friendly too and I knew that he liked me..." Casey stopped to gulp some air.

Sasha's expression and voice were flat and purposeful; he was on a mission now. "What did he do?"

"He asked me to go for coffee, he didn't even know it was Thanksgiving and I really think he might be an alien...anyway, so he asked me to go to his car with him and...I went."

"And then?" Sasha demanded.

"We talked a bit and I asked him if he was one of them and he wouldn't tell me...I decided he had to be and — " The tears were back with a vengeance "— and I didn't care, Sasha, I wanted him because he was one of them, I thought he would take me and make me disappear and I wanted him to..."

"Oh, god, kitten..."

Sasha was reaching out to soothe him but he didn't want to be soothed, he flinched away. "I...I came onto h-him...I'm so..."

"Did you have sex with him?" Sasha demanded in a level tone. He was obviously making a great effort to restrain himself.

"No, but I would have...He's s-smart, he knew I was just...just using him, he was nice about it but he s-said I just wanted revenge and he was too old for me and then he asked me t-to go so I did...but I was afraid to go home until Zeke found me — "

"Did Zeke hurt you?"

"Hurt — ?"

"Did he hit you? Did you tell him and then he put that bruise on your face?"

"No...I really did fall in the shower."

"I saw how you were moving yesterday, I'm not blind, Casey."

"He didn't hurt me," Casey insisted. "He was just wonderful, like really patient and...he forgave me for running away but I don't know if could forgive me for this...Sasha..." His throat clogged up yet again. "I don't — I'm afraid — don't know what I'm doing — "

Sasha took his hand and held it firmly. "Okay, I'm not exactly comfortable with this business about Zeke 'forgiving' you — or that bruise, but I'm going to let that go for the moment."

"Are you disgusted with me?" Casey pleaded, clinging to Sasha's hand.

"Disgusted — fuck, no." Sasha was scowling as he continued, "I am shocked, though. A bit disappointed...but mostly relieved that something really bad didn't happen. For fuck sake, Casey, you don't know a thing about this man and if he had wanted to do something to you we wouldn't even have known where you were. I thought you were more sensible than that."

"Thomas isn't...like that."

"Sure, you were lucky this time," Sasha snapped. "I'll tell you what, kitten...You can have sex with anyone you like but if I find out that you've ever done anything this foolish again I'll see to it that you never leave this apartment without a chaperone." Sasha tugged lightly on Casey's hand, like he wanted to be certain that he had Casey's attention. "Do we understand each other?"

"Yes," Casey whispered. "Are you — are you going to tell Zeke?"

Sasha was taken aback. "Of course not," he returned. Unexpectedly, his eyes began to tear up. "Kitten, you have no idea how grateful I am that you confided in me, I really thought that you didn't — " He caught himself, went on, "Well, you don't need to hear about my insecurities in addition to everything you're dealing with. I was going to say that I'd never betray a confidence like that. But I would try to convince you that you should tell Zeke — "

"No...can't."

"— but not now," Sasha finished, and sighed deeply. "Right now we need to figure out the best way to help you because this is all way beyond me."

Casey could see that Sasha needed to hold him; he slipped back into range of Sasha's arms and laid his head against Sasha's shoulder, shuddering away the remnants of his crying jag. "Scared," he mumbled.

"I know," Sasha said, and rocked him a bit.

"Had this dream last night...It was terrible, Thomas and Winona were aliens and they wanted to make me one of them."

"I'm afraid I'll never understand about the aliens, but I do know one thing, Casey...They're more a part of you than I ever thought, they're absolutely fundamental to this whole mess and you have to tell Yves about them or you're just spinning your wheels with her."

Casey said in a tiny voice, "I know...but I asked Zeke again yesterday and he said no."

"So you do it anyway, Casey."

"I don't know if I can."

"Well...then you're just stuck, aren't you?"

Casey didn't have a reply to that, other than a shiver.

"I'll talk to Zeke about this if you want me to," Sasha offered.

"No, please, don't...don't do that."

"All right...then you could talk to him — but you don't need his permission, Casey."

"It's not that simple."

"Yes, it is that simple. Now I want you to repeat after me: 'I don't need Zeke's permission...'"

"I don't need Zeke's permission," Casey muttered.

"'...to talk about whatever I want to talk about...'"

"To talk about whatever I want to talk about."

"'...in my therapy.'"

"In my therapy."

"Excellent. So then...what are you going to do?

There was no answering that question. Sasha had just travelled a really long way with Casey and would not want to hear another I don't know. The thing was, Casey needed to explain to Sasha why it wasn't that easy, that it wasn't just because he didn't like to do things that Zeke didn't want him to do. The aliens were the cement between the two of them; the aliens had been the shared history, the linchpin of their loyalty to each other long before they were anything but friends. Sasha didn't understand that yet and Casey should help him to understand — but even to do that was somehow a betrayal of the bond.

"Kitten? What are you going to do?"

I don't know.

"I guess I don't need to tell you what I think," Sasha added, with a sigh.

But something had been betrayed yesterday too. Maybe it could have been worse, maybe Zeke didn't know the full extent of it but even so Casey had done some serious damage and he was afraid that he was nowhere near finished. It didn't matter that he didn't want to break Zeke, that he didn't want to be this way, feel this way...he would break Zeke, he would be this way and it wouldn't stop until he could be less scared and more brave.

Now there was another memory floating up, and this was the one that he had truly forgotten until this moment...It was that instant in the early morning just before he fell asleep again, when Zeke had asked him if he felt better and he lied and said yes. Right then he had known what he needed to do to feel better, and he was even willing to do it but that was last night when he was still shaking with panic and desperate never to have a dream like that again. Now in the light of day the dream was fading, and he was a whole other kind of desperate. Even with Sasha right in his face confirming what he already knew, he didn't think that he could do it. He had been told that he was brave, and maybe he had been in the past. Maybe he still could be, but he didn't know if he could be brave enough.

Casey shook his head and smiled to himself.

"What?" Sasha queried, frowning. "What are you thinking?"

"That I know what I'm supposed do."

"Which is what?"

Casey replied bitterly, "Nothing I haven't done before."

It was something he hated to do and longed to do, something that no one wanted to do, that no one would do except for him. Certainly not Delilah or Stan, nor Stokely — not even Zeke.

Zeke would never understand why it had to be done, because when it came right down to it, Zeke didn't know a thing about being alien. That was Casey's area of expertise, always had been and always would be. It was his gift.


	5. Chapter 5

Something was crawling on him. It was gentle but insistent, it had slithered up his arm like there was no part of him it couldn't access...right now just it was just a parcel of his flesh, just one little piece of him, but it would want more and it would take more, always more and he couldn't let it, couldn't let them do this...because there were limits, there were, although he despaired of making that understood and he was stuck, trapped...and now behind him was a hard, unyielding surface that kept him from getting away so he was making himself ready for battle —

"Kitten?"

— whatever it took to get away, a fist or a scream —

"C'mon, kitten, you're not getting out of this."

The thing that had his arm let go, and then he was looking into the surprised faces of Sasha and Nurse Ultra-Gruff. Sasha's hand was hovering in the air as to suggest both the offer of security and the promise that he would seize Casey again if necessary.

Casey blinked hard, widening his focus to take in the rest of his milieu — late Thursday morning in a busy clinic, one week after a Thanksgiving drama and an eternity since revelation. Beyond Sasha and the nurse a few people were passing, just outside the realm of polite disinterest but certainly not too distant to take a good, healthy stare if they were so inclined. Most ignored him though, absorbed with their own miseries.

The nurse said, "Casey?" in a tone implying that while it might not be the first time she had said his name today, it would be the last. "It's time to go in."

Submitting to reality, Casey rose wearily to his feet and contemplated all the pretending that he had ahead of him — but not pretending, he was not in such bad shape...he was just so very tired. There was nothing he needed to pretend about; he only wanted to handle this visit as quickly and smoothly as possible and move on to the next appointment, the one that loomed over tomorrow. The one with Dr. Yves. Given the existence of that appointment, the condition of his body didn't have much relevance, but Sasha had insisted on this — and when Sasha insisted, he didn't leave much in the way of alternatives. A person would give in rather quickly to avoid the campaign of persuasion that could be unleashed. Especially if a person was relying on Sasha the way Casey had been; since last Friday in particular he had been subsisting on Sasha's pep talks and snuggles...and, of course, with all that he received a free and generous portion of nagging.

Last week's epiphany was so impossibly removed in time now that Casey barely recalled his reasons. He was just careening along a set path now, helped along by Sasha, who had borne witness to his sobbing and verbalizing and emoting...and his ultimate declaration. Sasha had heard and would countenance no dragging of heels; he sat right next to Casey while he called Doctor Yves and made the appointment, and hooray for having a friend who knew him so well that they knew better than to trust him with the follow-through. Hooray for having someone on hand to intervene if Casey's voice happened to suffer a critical malfunction.

As it turned out, Sasha had just listened, nodding approvingly. Casey had fully expected it to be horrible but it wasn't, because Dr. Yves sounded detached and straightforward like she always did and they made the appointment for the following Friday, the first of December — which had seemed such a comforting distance away in time but was suddenly tomorrow.

Then, because Sasha was of the opinion that Casey's physical health was in jeopardy, there had been a call to Dr. Chakri's office. Casey didn't debate it, because on this point Sasha would not negotiate...so just because Casey had been sore after having inadequately lubricated sex and he had some bruises and he couldn't sleep very well a lot of nights, just because he felt ready to snap like an old, over-used rubber band and he'd been losing a lot of time to the big, grey empty...although he hadn't told Sasha that, had he, and he thought he'd been doing reasonably well at disguising any physical discomfort this past week. There wasn't a problem, it was just that he and Zeke had been fucking like rabbits and the soreness hadn't really gone away.

So he was only here today on Sasha's insistence. Well, mostly. He was also here for a refill of his Xanax. He had run out on Tuesday, and since then bravery had been in short supply.

Now that Casey was standing and oriented to the real world, Sasha was up at his side, subtly requiring the nurse to step back, making the standard after you gesture — although he was really saying get in there and don't you dare try to run away or I'll hunt you down and bring you in bound hand and foot if necessary. There was a faint but determined smile on Sasha's face as well, and Casey considered the likelihood that he had made a mistake in granting permission for Sasha to come into the exam room with him. He was resigned, though, because he needed Sasha desperately these days and the trade-off for Sasha's support was having to endure this constant, overwrought concern.

The first part of the visit was almost boringly familiar by now; he was given a gown and a cup to pee into, and shown directly into the exam room. Next he had a dilemma: Did he insist on pulling the curtain while he changed into the gown and thus raise Sasha's suspicions even higher, or did he just calmly strip in front of him? It wasn't like he had anything to hide, but Sasha would soon be demanding an inventory of each and every mark on his body. And there really was no point to hiding; if Sasha stayed as he plainly had every intention of doing, he would see most of them anyway. All the same, Casey wanted to delay that for as long as he could.

Sasha took the problem away from him, by politely turning his back.

As he got undressed, Casey performed his own inventory; it seemed sensible to have answers if there were questions. Okay, for a start there was the bruise on his chin, which seemed to be at its absolute ugliest today. The same went for the bruises on his knees and shins, all of them spectacularly purple and green with just the slight tinge of yellow that barely suggested the beginning of healing...but he had an explanation for those. No, it was going to be a lot more challenging to account for the ones on his hips, thighs and arms. Dr. Chakri would see all of it and he would have to tell her the truth — and the truth should settle it, the truth was people could get bruised having sex and they could even be really sore for a day or two — not that she was going to have anything to say on the subject because she wasn't getting anywhere near his ass and if only Sasha could stop his humiliating surveillance, evaluating how Casey walked and sat, looking for any twinge or grimace that might suggest mistreatment.

After Casey was dressed in the gown, he sat down on the bed and hugged himself, wondering why all hospitals and clinics seemed to deliberately keep the heat turned down. Sasha leaned sideways against the bed and reached for Casey's hand. "Now, kitten," he said. "You know this is important, right?"

"Yeah," Casey sighed, and swallowed a lump of bitter ill-will towards the very person who cared most conspicuously for him.

"You know you're important?"

He squirmed, but said because it was the right answer, "Yes, Sasha."

"So you're going to tell her the truth about everything."

Casey gritted his teeth. "Everything...like what?"

Sasha's gaze was now roaming, cataloguing his evidence; he was getting ready to present his case to the judge and jury. It was a trial in which Casey had absolutely no wish to participate. Sasha replied absently, "Just whatever."

The door opened and Dr. Chakri came in, her cream-coloured file folder pressed up against her chest. She smiled a greeting. "Hello, Casey. Hello, Sasha."

"Hello, Doctor," Sasha replied, looking to Casey to follow suit. Casey resisted the hint; it wasn't like he needed prompting to perform every day, basic protocols like saying hello.

Dr. Chakri inquired of him: "And how are we today, Casey?"

"Fine."

Dr. Chakri took a position a few feet away from him as he sat on the exam bed with his feet dangling. Her eyes were already hard at work, taking note of his various scrapes and bumps. The careful gaze paused just for a moment over the latest of the marks — which was not a bruise, it was beard burn on his neck caused by Zeke's overenthusiastic nuzzling at a time of night when the most recent shave had been a distant memory.

"So...it seems like you wanted to see me pretty urgently," she said. Casey waited, fully expecting Sasha to present his statement. When nothing happened, the doctor asked gently, "What's going on, Casey?"

He introduced a topic that felt manageable. "Um, I...I ran out of Xanax."

"Oh?" Dr. Chakri's brows lifted; she flipped open her file folder and read from it. "You're going through them pretty quickly." She then pinned Casey with a neutral expression. "Have you been having a lot of panic attacks?"

"Yeah," he mumbled. "And..."

"Yes?"

"I've been t-taking them sometimes...when...when I can't sleep, but Dr. Yves said it was okay."

Dr. Chakri didn't reply right away. She scanned her notes again and then put the open folder down on the small table nearby. She clasped her hands over her belly and asked, "Have you been having a lot of trouble sleeping?"

"Yeah, I...I know it's a bad pattern but I can't break out of it."

"Tell me more about that?"

Sasha made a sound like an aborted word, then closed his mouth.

It was challenging to tell the story with him listening, but Casey proceeded as best he could. "I used to just s-sleep all the time and it wasn't a problem, but...but now I can't fall asleep a lot of nights even though I'm so tired...so I take a Xanax but then it makes me sleep half the day and I can't fall asleep again so I stay up all night...and...I don't know...it's like I don't know how to sleep like a regular person anymore."

Dr. Chakri nodded. "Do you feel like you can't sleep if you don't have a Xanax?"

Carefully, he replied, "I wouldn't say that."

"But you have been finding that you can't go to sleep at a reasonable hour unless you take one."

Casey appealed to Sasha, who finally chimed in, "His sleep is just all over the map, doctor. I think it's kind of my fault. For a while he was trying not to nap during the day even though he was really tired sometimes, and Zeke was kind of...enforcing it...but of course I was the softie. I said, you want to sleep, so sleep."

Dr. Chakri pondered this for a moment. "Would you say that your days have been busy, Casey?"

"Busy?" he echoed.

"Is there a lot of activity, I mean."

"I guess...I don't know."

"I was just thinking it would be helpful if you had more to do during the day. That is...I know you have a lot of emotional work to do, but I'm thinking about physical work. When I was a student I had terrible insomnia sometimes, because all I did was sit around studying all day. I was working hard but my body was kind of at rest — but really tense, too. It doesn't make for easy sleep."

"I do go out...I have...I walk to m-my appointments."

"You've been going to relaxation, right? Plus going to see Dr. Yves?"

Casey waited for Sasha's intervention, comments, disapproval...whatever Sasha had to say, it was imminent; Sasha was in possession of information that he wouldn't be able to withhold. Apparently that moment hadn't come yet, however, and Casey said with his eyes pointed at the floor, "Well...up until about a week ago."

"You mean you stopped seeing Dr. Yves...or you stopped the relaxation?"

"Both...but I'm going to see Dr. Yves tomorrow so I only missed a week."

Sasha said quietly, "I think it's been more like a couple of weeks for the relaxation."

So now it was confirmed: In this room, Sasha was not Casey's ally. Sasha was here to see to it that the doctor heard The Truth, not that Sasha even knew what it was.

"Casey?" prompted Dr. Chakri. "Is that true?"

"Yeah...a couple of weeks, I guess..." Casey lifted his eyes tentatively, hoping they wouldn't see the rancour he was feeling. "...but like I said, I have an appointment with Dr. Yves tomorrow."

"I'll make sure he goes," Sasha added.

Casey couldn't contain his reaction to that comment. "I said I would go," he grumbled.

"Sorry, kitten, I just want to help."

Sasha tried to find his hand, to give it one of his encouraging little squeezes no doubt, but Casey refused to unfold his arms, keeping his hands buried. "I know what I have to do. I told you I would do it and I will."

Dr. Chakri interposed quietly. "How's your mood these days, Casey?"

"My mood?"

"Would you say you've been more or less sad...or irritable?"

"I feel more irritable right now."

"I've noticed. Is it just this situation or would you say that you've been more irritable over all?"

"I can answer that one," Sasha said under his breath.

If Sasha intended that Casey feel ashamed, it worked. He admitted, "I've been feeling angry a lot."

"How angry?"

Hmm, let's see, doctor...so angry my head fills up with poison and I want to scream at everyone and destroy things and I threaten things that make no sense...so angry and scared I'll do anything to make it stop...please make it stop I have to make it stop...make me stop...

"P-pretty angry," he stammered.

"It's not necessarily a bad thing to feel angry, you know."

He shrugged.

Dr. Chakri added, sounding sympathetic, "I know it doesn't feel very good...and I'm not the psychiatrist but I do know that it's very important that you keep talking to Dr. Yves, Casey. Or if that's not working out, then someone else."

He nodded and hoped for a change of subject.

"So you started skipping your appointments a couple of weeks ago but you're trying to get back on track," Dr. Chakri summarized. "At least with seeing Dr. Yves...and you've been having a lot of trouble getting regular sleep. When did that start?"

"It started before," Casey said quickly. He was never going back to relaxation therapy and he didn't want her to think that Rick-Ron and his waving grasses had been any kind of positive factor in relation to sleep issues. "A while ago."

"All right. Are there any other times, apart from when you have panic attacks, that you've been taking your Xanax?"

"Um...s-sometimes...it's not that I'm panicking but I feel like — like I'm losing it, like I can't think and my head's spinning and I'm afraid I'm going to start screaming or something and I just want to escape from it so...so I take a Xanax."

"Hmm," Dr. Chakri commented. "We don't want you to be screaming or losing it...that pretty much qualifies as a panic-type situation. But I am very concerned about how quickly you've gone through them. Remember the first time when we talked about you trying Xanax and how I said that it isn't a cure for anxiety?"

Casey hadn't thought that the sweet, girlish voice could sound quite so hard, or so displeased. He stared at his knees, which had begun bouncing and jittering at some point during the past few minutes without his even being aware of it.

"I think I made it clear that I'm not a big fan of sedatives as a long-term solution, Casey. I wanted the Xanax to be an interim measure, something to help you until you could address your anxiety through therapy. But you're telling me that you've stopped going to relaxation and you've missed sessions with Dr. Yves...and now you're using Xanax as a sleep aid. I must say, I'm really surprised that Dr. Yves would recommend that."

Casey found himself in the peculiar situation of defending his shrink. "Sh- she said once in a while it was okay, I don't think she meant for me to take them that often."

"I see."

That was it, then...She wasn't going to give him anymore Xanax and so the next time he had a panic attack, he would die. He put his hands on his knees to steady himself and looked past her at the wall that was randomly plastered with free public health posters. His chest was heaving slightly as he tried to think of some argument he could make. He couldn't find a single premise that made any sense. All he could think was I need them and he knew in the small part of him that was still rational that this was not a sound argument.

"How about your dissociative episodes?" Dr. Chakri asked. "Do you still have them?"

"Yes."

"Would you say more or less often?"

"It's...hard to say. It feels like more."

"When's the last time you had one?"

"Just before this...in the waiting room."

Dr. Chakri looked slightly more sympathetic than she had been a moment ago. "It's pretty stressful coming here, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"How about before today?"

Avoiding the gaze of both people in the room now... "Yesterday."

"Yesterday?" Sasha broke in. "When?"

"You were, um...cleaning, I think."

"But you didn't tell me — where was Zeke?"

"At school. I...I didn't want to...to worry you."

"And before that?" Dr. Chakri inquired.

"I'm not sure," Casey replied, although he was. There was something that had been happening almost every day, but it wasn't the same kind of greying out that he was used to. Mostly when he stepped into the shower it would start, images would spin in front of his eyes and he would struggle not to see them and the next thing he knew, he would be standing under the water getting hypothermia. Oh, the joy of some new kind of crazy for him to savour.

And there were still the traditional zone-outs too — such as the episode last Monday, another one that Sasha didn't know about. That had been the afternoon that they spoke with Charly on the phone; Sasha had been keen to apologize and Casey was easily convinced that he wanted to apologize as well so after Sasha said his piece, the handset was transferred to him and he stammered something, feeling like a traitor.

Charly had said only, "Don't worry about it, Casey. I think I understand Zeke...maybe more than he would like. I don't hold it against him...or you." Then she'd changed the subject with, "Stokely mentioned to me once that you used to work on your school paper...that you took photographs." Not waiting for confirmation from him, she then asked Casey if he would like to do some photography again. When he asked why, she admitted that she owned several cameras and she had one that was older but in very good condition and she would be happy to gift it to him if it helped to revive his interest in photography.

At this, Casey had experienced a tentative moment of straightforward, pleasurable anticipation. He had accepted the offer and she had promised to send the camera along with Stan, who could pass it on to Stokely — who had presented the camera to Casey the very next day; it was a good, solid Nikon with manual shutter speed, focus and flash, manual everything. She'd also sent along a cheap tripod and, incongruously, a plastic container full of leftover sweet potatoes. None of it could hurt Zeke, and yet after that conversation with Charly he had gone into his room to lay down for a while, and once he started dwelling on the myriad of ways that he was betraying Zeke it wasn't long before he slipped into that quiet void where he didn't have to fear the outcome of any of his various acts of betrayal.

Dr. Chakri said, "Would you say the dissociation is happening more or less frequently than before...or about the same?"

Sasha volunteered, "As far as I know those episodes have actually decreased quite a bit, doctor...it's probably still not as frequent as before."

"Does that sound accurate, Casey?"

"I guess."

Dr. Chakri acknowledged this with a nod and spent a solid minute bringing her notes up to date.

"Well, Casey," she then said in a tone that told him she was about to render a decision that he wasn't going to like. "From what you've told me, I'm very reluctant to renew your prescription for Xanax."

He'd known it was coming, but hearing it still felt a lot like being socked in the stomach. He began to protest, "But — but I —"

"Xanax can be very helpful in certain cases but I'm concerned that you're growing dependent on it, and when I hear that you're no longer going to relaxation..."

"I'll go back," he offered, desperate enough that he actually meant it.

"But why did you stop going in the first place, Casey?"

There was nothing he could say that wouldn't be ridiculous. If he was truthful, she wouldn't renew his prescription — and he couldn't really come up with a plausible lie, on the spot, that would get past the Sasha filter.

Dr. Chakri went on, "It's not that it has to be that particular form of relaxation, maybe that therapy isn't right for you. There are a lot of other ways to relax...yoga, or just a straight exercise program."

"B-but I need..."

"I think Xanax has served its purpose for now and it would be more harmful than helpful to refill your prescription."

He blurted, "You don't know, you don't know, I need it...I can't do what I have to do, not without it."

She had been looking for at chart, but now she looked keenly at him and said, "Do what, Casey?"

"I mean," he faltered, struggling for coherence. "I have to...to go back to school, to have a job...have a life..."

"But Xanax hasn't been getting that done for you, has it?"

Maybe he should tell her how just knowing that he had Xanax made a difference, even if he didn't take it...but that wouldn't work, she wouldn't trust him anyway. Maybe he should tell her that she had no right to make this decision for him that she had no idea what he was dealing with and he had really thought that she was on his side but maybe not, maybe she was not his friend at all.

"Casey? I'm not leaving you in the lurch. I'm thinking about having you try a different medication."

"Oh," he whispered, not very hopeful.

"There is a drug from the same class as Xanax, it's called Klonopin...you don't take it when there's a panic attack coming, you take it regularly just like you take your Paxil and it has a more drawn out, long-term effect. From the sound of it you're still experiencing a lot of anxiety all the time and the Paxil hasn't been entirely effective with that. Klonopin is prescribed specifically for panic disorder and I'm thinking we might get better results with it. What do you think?"

"Will it stop them?"

"There are no guarantees, of course, but it has been quite effective in helping people with panic disorder. It doesn't work instantly, I can tell you that...and even if it is effective it doesn't mean you couldn't have a panic attack once in while. The idea is that it will reduce your overall level of anxiety so you can go out and do more things and get used to the idea of going about your life without being in a constant state of fear. You need to put a few more success stories behind you, Casey, so your body learns not to always react the way it does now."

Klonopin sounded like heaven in a bottle to Casey, but Sasha asked, very sensibly, "What are the side effects?"

"Like Xanax, it is a sedative so the most common side effect is sleepiness. Not so much as Xanax and it varies from person to person. Also, it usually diminishes after the first little while; you'll have to keep me advised about that. The other catch is that you are already taking Paxil, Casey, and not a lot is known about how those drugs interact. They are prescribed together but responses to drugs can be very individual. My recommendation is that we reduce your dosage of Paxil and start with the minimum dose of Klonopin but before we do that, we'll take your blood today — which we were going to do anyway, right? — and check your liver and kidney function. We'll have to keep a close eye on that. The other thing is just to start out gradually and be really aware of how you're feeling, and call me immediately if you have any symptoms."

"Okay," Casey agreed, readily.

"So instead of taking those Paxil tablets twice a day, reduce them to once a day, and I'm going to prescribe two weeks worth of Klonopin. You'll have quarter milligram tablets...the first day you take one, the second day you take two, and then three and then on the fourth day you'll be up to one milligram. You can take the last tablet just before bed and it should help you get to sleep."

Casey forced himself to speak in a regular tone. "But...how long before they take effect?"

"For full effect...it could be a week. And again, Casey, there are no guarantees. If this doesn't work we might want to try something else. There's Zoloft too, but I would want to take you off the Paxil first...and for now I don't want to do that because it seems to be helping with your depression."

Casey could have debated that but he didn't. He imagined that from her perspective the fact that he was more miserable than ever meant that he was improving in leaps and bounds. "But I could still have a panic attack," he said, and heard himself nearly whining.

She gave him a steady look, not flinching in the face of his pitiful little demonstration. "I'm reluctant to give you any Xanax, Casey. Especially since you'll be taking another sedative."

"But --- I — " Casey stammered, and gave up. His throat was constricted and painful. "What if s-something happens?"

Dr. Chakri considered him, perhaps making a decision about his level of honesty. She said, "All right, here's what I'll do. Because there's going to be a bit of a gap in time before the Klonopin takes effect and you'll probably be able to control your anxiety better if you know that you have some back-up...I'll write a prescription for six Xanax, but only if Zeke or Sasha is willing keep them for you."

"I can hang on to them," Sasha said immediately.

"Thank you, Sasha. So, Casey, you'll have to ask Sasha for a Xanax and you should only do it if you really, really need it. With the Klonopin in your system, the sedative effect will be increased so you want to be careful before you resort to taking a Xanax."

"How do I know when it's serious enough?" Sasha asked.

"It's good that you're asking that, Sasha, but I think that it really comes down to you knowing Casey. You've been close to him long enough that you can probably tell when he's experiencing maximum anxiety. Of course, if he's hyperventilating, you probably give him one but it's not up to you to rate how anxious he is. He is an adult and this is his decision." Dr. Chakri changed the angle of her gaze to address Casey. "Just bear in mind that if you go through them too quickly again, I will not renew them." Just for a moment as he looked into her eyes, he was livid with rage at the inequity of the situation — having to go begging and justifying himself to Sasha who had never known what it felt like to know that you were dying, that your own body was not a safe place to be. "I'm not stupid, you know," he said.

"I know that, Casey, but it isn't about how smart you are. I've seen some very smart people get into terribly destructive situations with drugs. This class of medications has helped a lot of people but they can also do a lot of damage."

"The doctor's just trying to find a way to help," Sasha soothed, again trying to touch Casey. This time, he pushed Sasha's hand away.

"I'm sorry, Casey," Dr. Chakri said. "From your perspective I may seem harsh, but believe me, you do not want to get into a dependency. You have enough to deal with already. You want to be happy and healthy in the long run, not just do what's easy right now."

"What if I don't care about the long run," he muttered.

"Casey," Sasha said, chastising.

Maybe he was being difficult...okay, he was very difficult, but he found it difficult to give a fuck at the moment. He had a task hanging over him that was all that he could see, there was nothing beyond that, and the people whom he thought were his allies were turning against him all at once.

"As far as the insomnia goes," Dr. Chakri continued, "I'm thinking you should try to increase your level of physical activity. You have been walking every day, right?"

"Yes," he answered precisely, around a clenched jaw.

"Walking to your appointments, right?"

"Yes."

Dr. Chakri didn't seem more than mildly concerned by his sullenness. "All right, Casey, it's up to you, but you definitely need to find some other ways to relax and there's nothing like a little physical exhaustion to help you get a good night's sleep — although looking at you at this moment I have some doubts about recommending anything strenuous."

Sasha snorted his agreement. Casey glared in his direction but Sasha looked unrepentent, daring Casey to contradict anything as he said, "Dr. Chakri, I've been very worried about him."

The doctor nodded and asked, "Have you been eating properly, Casey?"

"I guess not."

"You guess not?"

"No, I haven't been eating properly," Casey snapped. "But that was just last week and it's back to normal."

"I don't know if I would say that," Sasha corrected.

Dr. Chakri glanced at him, then continued, "Do you want to tell me what happened last week, Casey?"

Casey shrugged and made a point of meeting her gaze. "I was fighting with Zeke."

Her eyes narrowed just the tiniest bit yet her little sugary voice didn't change at all. "So you were fighting with Zeke, you're having trouble sleeping, taking a lot of Xanax and not eating very much. And not going to relaxation...basically, not taking care of yourself very well."

There seemed to be nothing he could say to that.

Sasha piped up, "It's funny how some people eat more when they're upset and some people seem naturally inclined to eat less...too bad you couldn't switch that one around, kitten."

Casey pretended he hadn't heard that. He wasn't about to let Sasha's charm mollify him, not when Sasha had just been busy telling on Casey like some five- year-old girl on the playground: Doctor, Casey didn't eat his lunch...Casey isn't sleeping right...Casey isn't following the rules...

Dr. Chakri observed, "I know sometimes when you feel very upset about something it's easy to just ignore simple things like eating but you have to remember, Casey, how hard you've worked to feel better. You don't want to undo all that, do you?"

She waited for him to answer. And waited.

"No," he said at last, with reluctance.

"Casey, when you say you were fighting with Zeke...what kind of fighting were you talking about?"

"I meant arguing — Zeke wouldn't hurt me." Casey could hear his tone rising. He fought it down and said again, this time for Sasha's benefit: "He wouldn't hurt me."

"Not on purpose, no," Sasha returned.

"Well then, Casey," Dr. Chakri said, very casually. "So what about these bruises I see?"

Casey had to resist the urge to tug his gown, try to make it cover his knees. And he had to stop with the jittering. "Which ones?" he challenged, trying to make his legs be still. And the rest of him too...He had to force himself not to chew on his cuticle.

"On your face, for a start."

"I fell. I was in the shower and I fell and that's why my knees are bruised too. I know that's what people always say when...but I really did fall."

"Do you mind if I do a bit of an examination?" Dr. Chakri asked.

"Of what?"

"You say you fell in the shower. That's a pretty hard surface, so I would want to take a quick look, make sure you're not seriously hurt."

"It happened a week ago."

"Just for my peace of mind?"

"Okay," he muttered.

He held himself stiffly while she gently felt up and down his arms and legs and moved them this way and that. The feeling of her fingers made his skin creep and he started to shake anew, this time with the effort of remaining in place. He could sense her intelligent eyes on him, not only looking at his flesh but at his reactions, watching for him to slip up.

The thought of Zeke helped him to steady himself...right now Zeke was hauling his ass to the bus stop, feeling absolutely worn out and stressed because he was having to go about his routine while Sasha did all the Casey-care...and, oh, yeah, things were calmer this week but no way were they relaxed. Zeke wanted to know where Casey was at all times, he was snappish and blunt and it only confirmed what Casey already knew — Zeke really needed a break. He needed Casey's protection, too...especially from the W-Monster, always from the W-Monster...after all, Zeke was innocent, he didn't know what she was, just like he was one of the last to figure out about Mary Beth but Casey didn't blame him for that, it was always the most harmless-seeming, the one you least expected...

Gently manipulating Casey's arm, Dr. Chakri said, "Everything seems to be in working order."

"I told you."

"Yes, you did," she replied tolerantly. "You know, Casey, I'm having a thought...We didn't quite get to finish your examination before."

"What do you mean?"

"Your physical exam. We left out a part. Perhaps we could do it now... I was thinking that with Sasha here you might feel more comfortable."

Casey jerked his head up. He was sure that there was a glimmer of something...interest, maybe...in her eyes. No, she couldn't be, she couldn't...but maybe she was, maybe he had it all wrong and the enemy was here but no, she had been kind she hadn't ever but she was so nice so kind it could very well be a deception.

"Do you want to discuss it with Sasha maybe?" Dr. Chakri asked him.

"No," he stated.

"Casey — "

"I don't want to, I don't want to do it, it's my choice, right?"

"Of course it's your choice if you ever do it, or have any kind of medical treatment." Dr. Chakri glanced at Sasha. "Do you want me to talk openly about this in front of Sasha?"

He shrugged. He knew that Sasha would never rest until he discovered what this was about and he was unable to think much beyond yes...whatever...I don't know...stop this...stop this...gotta stop this.

"You told me you'd had unprotected sex, Casey. Your blood test checked out fine but there's still a few months to go before we can be absolutely sure. And the blood test doesn't tell us everything. You must want to know for sure that you're okay, and not just for your sake, for Zeke's — "

"We're using condoms," he said — and then remembered that it wasn't true. They hadn't used a condom since last Thursday. Two, three times he'd forgotten and then he'd finally remembered to say something because it seemed to be up to him to do it and when he did Zeke just dismissed it with a tinge of impatient anger It's my decision and I don't want to use them anymore.. "Anyway, I'm c-cl — " He couldn't say that word because clean was the last thing that he was. "I'm okay.

"Most likely, yes," the doctor corrected. "But the other thing is that...well, seeing as you are a sexually active gay man..." She shrugged, perhaps fortifying herself to be as blunt as she needed to be. "If you are having anal intercourse then I would recommend a rectal exam on a regular basis. It can cause a lot of wear and tear and you need to look after yourself."

There...he saw it, it was a gleam like she finally had him...he saw it, he knew it and she knew, he didn't know how but she knew and she couldn't know unless she was one of them they all shared a brain didn't they and since he hadn't told her they must share a brain and so she was going to use the opportunity to take him and he wouldn't be around the defend Zeke, he wouldn't be anywhere.

"Normally I wouldn't be this insistent — "

Casey slid off the table, landing with a bone-rattling thump that sent a jolt of mortifyingly intimate pain, up from the bare soles of his feet, through the core of him.

"Casey, where are you — "

"I don't have to stay here," he hissed. He tried to get a view of the door, just beyond her shoulder. She was taller than he had thought. "You can't make me."

"I want to make sure that you're healthy, Casey."

"I'm fine."

Sasha argued, "You're not fine, kitten. I've seen you making faces like you're in pain when you think no one's looking."

Even after Sasha's behaviour up to this point, Casey still couldn't believe that Sasha was informing on him like this — and it wasn't even the truth, it was a totally made-up piece of garbage. "That's not fucking true!"

Sasha implored his forgiveness with an offered hand and calmly went on with the snitching. "You've been sore, I've seen you...you don't want to sit down."

"That was just one time," Casey insisted, backing away from both of them.

"Kitten, there's not a guy alive who feels comfortable about getting the exam but the doctor's right — "

"I said no! What part of that don't you understand?"

He was speaking to Sasha, but Dr. Chakri got the message as well. She soothed, "Okay, Casey. It's up to you...but will you answer some questions for me?"

"Maybe," he said, breathing hard.

"Please...?"

She gestured to him, asking him to stay in the room or sit, he wasn't sure and he didn't care. He remained where he was, with a decent gap of space between him and them. He could get to the door, he decided. He would just have to go really fast and push her as hard as he could to clear a path. It would probably hurt her but he didn't know any other way and this was war, after all. There would be casualties, including himself if necessary — but god, fuck, he'd really thought Sasha was on his side and it hurt, he could feel the tears coming and rubbed furiously at his face. He was not going to fall apart here, not here, he couldn't. He had a task to finish and then...well, he didn't expect to survive but for now he still had a few options.

The doctor was speaking to him.

"What?" he blurted. If he just controlled the terror and acted closer to normal...that was another way out of here too but it didn't foreclose his fighting his way out if he had to.

"I said..." Dr. Chakri replied, being very patient, "It seems like Sasha is suggesting that you've been hurt having intercourse with Zeke."

"No, I...just been a bit sore...after."

"Are you sore now?"

"A little."

It was just a little bit of pain and he could easily ignore it...and it was good pain too, it was like a memory of something good travelling around with him.

"...sore to me, Casey."

"Huh?"

"Can you describe what you mean by ‘sore'?"

"K-kind of aching and...and there's a stinging."

"How long does it last?"

"It's only happened a few times." Casey shot a look at Sasha the Snitch, who was very red in the face. Oh, he knew how to get to the Snitch. He would just give them all the details, as much as they wanted, more than what they wanted...and he didn't mind talking about it because it was something that he cherished and he wouldn't hold back anything about it. Just thinking about his lover's body holding him and filling him...he was calmer, remembering. He was even smiling. "Most of the...dis-discomfort...it goes away after a shower or after a couple of hours."

"Do you use lubricant?"

"Always."

"What kind?"

"Astroglide or KY...we've used soap too, but that was just one time."

"Do you have pain during intercourse?"

"Not usually. Sometimes a little. And just so you know, Zeke is very careful. I'm always the one who wants go harder. I like it that way." Casey smiled at Sasha, enjoying seeing him squirm.

"Have you had any bleeding?"

"No."

"No bleeding at all? Because it's not uncommon and it's not — "

"None."

Dr. Chakri took a few moments to write some details on her chart. "All right, so what do you think is causing this soreness, Casey?"

"Hmm...well, Dr. Chakri, Zeke and I have been fucking a lot. We didn't fuck when we were fighting so I guess we're making up for it now."

"How often is ‘a lot'?"

Casey rattled off the information. "For the past week or so...we've been fucking a few times a day. That's not counting the other stuff."

"Other stuff?"

"Oh, you know...blow jobs and the rest."

Sasha's said tightly, "When the hell do you do all this fucking?"

"While you're at work...or sleeping."

"And when does Zeke find the time to study?" Sasha demanded.

Dr. Chakri cleared her throat. "When you have intercourse, would you say it's vigorous or more — gentle, for lack of a better word?"

Casey looked at her and let his voice devolve into a purr. "Hmm...depends. Sometimes he does me hard and fast...other times, like last night, he's just slow and methodical. He likes to take his time, actually. That way I really feel it...everything else goes away...except his cock."

Sasha closed his eyes, shaking his head slightly.

Dr. Chakri was all business. She said briskly, "All right, Casey...I'm sure that you know that with anal intercourse it's not uncommon to experience a little bruising or tearing. That's okay, but the really important thing is to give yourself time to heal. That's not to say you have to stop having sex, of course. There are lots of things you can do without having intercourse...which you know very well, from the sounds of it." She stopped her recitation, considered, then said, "Of course, another thing you could try is having Zeke be the bottom instead of you all the time."

Sasha snorted. "That's not going to happen," he said.

Dr. Chakri raised her eyebrows. Casey nodded, having his first moment of accord with Sasha almost since they had walked into this room. "He's right."

"Have you talked to Zeke about it?"

"I don't have to. He just wouldn't — but it's okay."

"It's okay — ?"

"Because I like being the bottom, Dr. Chakri."

"All right, but I would suggest that you give yourself a little time, Casey. If you get bruised or torn one time and then you don't wait for it to heal before you have sex again, then it will just become more and more aggravated."

"Of course," he said. He added, hoping to bring an end to this visit, "I'll be sure to do that."

She gazed back at him and said straightforwardly, "I'm not your therapist, Casey, so as far as the subject of your sex life is concerned...I'll limit myself to discussing your physical well-being. However, I think you have some things to discuss with Dr. Yves. Would you agree?"

"Oh, yes," he said, doing his best to sound sincere. "I'm going to tell her some stuff tomorrow."

"Very good. There's something you can do for me, though."

"What's that?"

"I would like to be able to share some information with Dr. Yves now and then, but I need your permission."

"Why?"

"I think that the situation with the Xanax could have been avoided if Dr. Yves were in possession of a little more medical information, but I'd need you to sign a release form so I could communicate more easily with her. It's quite routine when a patient is working with more than one doctor."

He had to wonder how stupid she actually thought he was. Okay, so she wanted to tell Dr. Yves that in her opinion he was being sexually abused or something...fine. Dr. Yves probably already thought that, and his refusing to sign the release would just raise more alarm bells. The trap was really closing around him now but it barely seemed to matter. He was just so tired of all this, all he really wanted was to get through tomorrow and then get to Sunday and get through that. Then he could rest.

"Okay," he said.

"Thank you, Casey. I'll go and get the form and have the nurse come in and take some blood if that's all right with you. We'll forego the weigh-in this time but I want to see a few pounds gained over the next two weeks."

"Two weeks?" he said in dismay.

"Yes, so you're going to have to eat three complete meals every day...I'll need to see you in a few days, just to check in on how you're doing with the Klonopin. Then a week from today, and then again two weeks from today — and I want to hear about more eating and sleeping and exercise." Dr. Chakri was not smiling at all as she stated, "There's only so much a doctor can do, the rest is up to you, Casey."

Casey tried to act like a diligent patient. "Yes, I...I understand."

Dr. Chakri whipped out her pad and wrote out two prescriptions. Offering the little slips of paper to him, she said, "Now, I want you to start with the Klonopin tonight, just before bed. And remember to phone me if you have any symptoms at all. I'll be right back with the release form."

The form was very generic, just saying that he authorized her to share information with Dr. Yves if necessary to fully assess his condition. He put the pen to paper knowing that Zeke would have forbidden him to sign it if he were here. Zeke might even yell at him if he found out — but it was really hard to feel the danger in signing a piece of paper given that once he finished telling Dr. Yves about the aliens she would probably have all the grounds she needed to ship him off to the nearest padded room. Zeke didn't seem to get that these doctors would always just do what they did. That was just part of the cost of slaying aliens, wasn't it, and it was always Casey Connor who made the payment.

After he signed the form it was back to routine, the nurses sticking him with a needle and filling some vials. Then he was allowed to get dressed, happily pulling the two shirts and sweater over his shivering body. The whole time he could sense Sasha's eyes fixed on him, alternatively scolding and pleading for understanding. He could feel those eyes when they collected their coats and left the clinic. He could feel them as his friend stalked to the driver's side of the car.

Casey got in on the passenger's side and Sasha sat quietly in the driver's seat. He started the engine but left it in park, turning up the heat to maximum. The air blasting out of the Mustang's vents felt frigid and would probably remain so for a solid half hour. Casey sank down, hunching his shoulders.

"That was quite a performance," Sasha said quietly.

Casey tucked his hands inside his coat and didn't answer.

"Kitten? Are you speaking to me?"

"You didn't have to do — what you did."

Sasha's chuckle was completely absent of mirth. "It's funny, every time I tell the truth someone tells me I didn't have to. Like it's optional."

"You made it sound like Zeke is — is h-hurting me on purpose. That's not the truth, that's your opinion."

"I doubt that he even knows he's hurting you — and being bruised inside and out isn't a matter of opinion, Casey."

"Sasha...isn't it enough that I'm going to go and spill my guts to Yves tomorrow?"

Sasha sighed. "Of course I'm very happy that you've decided to tell her something that she needs to know, but I'm not stupid either, kitten."

Casey's body vibrated, trying to generate some warmth. "I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, don't you?"

"No."

"Why did you freak out over the exam, Casey?"

"I didn't want her to touch me."

"Obviously, but why? You know her, you've been in her office several times and I'm pretty sure she touched you before."

Casey looked at Sasha just long enough to say, "Not like that."

"That's my whole point. I know there's more going on with you --- I know, and Zeke knows, and that's why I'm pissed at him for just rutting away without a care in the world."

"He doesn't just — "

Sasha overrode him with, "You shouldn't be having sex right now. Not with Zeke, not with anyone."

"That — it's not your right to say."

Sasha signalled that he was getting ready to make a Very Serious Speech by turning a full forty-five degrees, requiring Casey's attention. When he spoke, his voice was quiet with resolve and stentorian with passion for his subject.

"No, Casey, I don't have a right. I'm not your parent or your lover or your doctor — but I'm saying this anyway, because you are my business and when something's my business, I do what it takes. I look at you and I see you getting more and more ragged around the edges and the both of you are in total denial about it. Zeke's barely thinking straight anymore and you just egg him on, Casey. Of course he would never hurt you intentionally — but I can see him getting carried away."

"Maybe we got carried away," Casey said. He intended it to sound confident and forceful but it came out tiny.

"That's what I'm saying. You two need to take a break."

"No."

"Just for a little while, so you can both clear your head."

"No."

"Don't just keep saying no to me, kitten. Argue with me if you want, but don't just repeat that word over and over because it's not getting it done."

Emotion clotted Casey's throat and his eyes began to burn because he was failing, he was beyond arguing about this, he could only feel the fear that Sasha would somehow make Zeke leave him. He mumbled, "You can't make us stop anyway...and I need him...I need...There has to be something that feels good."

"Kitten..." Sasha paused, and paused some more. He said at length, "I'm not sure that you know what good feels like."

"And you do?" Casey croaked, glowering out the passenger-side window.

"Yes, actually, I do think that I do but that's not the point. The point, Casey, is that you need to take a break so you can remember. Going harder and faster and longer, searching for more intense feelings all the time is just going to make you feel less, not more. It's like...like when you have a really rich dessert. The first bite always tastes the best, have you ever noticed that? After that you're eating more and more of it trying to get back that first taste but your taste buds just get drowned and you feel bloated and disgusting."

Casey wished he could sneer or laugh that off, but he was having a vivid sense memory of the first time he had kissed Roy. His whole world had changed when that happened; it was like his body suddenly knew something his head couldn't sabotage, a knowledge that was terribly stressful but wonderful and he was a new person, so hungry for everything that nothing was ever enough. And then Roy gave him exactly what he wanted...and more and more and more and too much and even more than too much. He'd been drowned and he was still drowning but it felt so good he didn't see how he could go back the safe shore and play nice and normal.

"Kitten? What do you think?"

Casey hunched even further. "I don't...know..."

"Would you just consider easing off for a while? Give your body a chance to heal at least?"

Casey didn't answer at first. Then he said, "I told the doctor I would, didn't I?"

Sasha just sighed, and then put the car in gear. They didn't speak at all as Sasha drove, and that stiff, strained space gradually wrested the dregs of Casey's righteous anger away from him and left the suspicion that he was ready to beg for forgiveness. He needed Zeke, absolutely, but he would never survive without Sasha...and Sasha had never done anything but care about him.

The Mustang had pulled into the parking space in the alley behind their building. Sasha took a breath, forcing words through the silence. "How about we get those prescriptions filled before we shop?"

Ages ago, before the debacle with the doctor, he had convinced Casey to go with him to Sal's Grocery to buy the groceries for Zeke's party on Sunday. Casey had agreed, thinking that during the same expedition he would drop in at the shop where Zeke's gift was waiting. The entire project had been a rush job: On Tuesday night Casey had snapped several shots, then brought the film to the photo shop first thing Wednesday morning. Later in the day he'd selected an image from the negatives, to be blown up to 8.5 x 11, and chosen the matte and frame as well. He had called upon all of his limited powers of persuasion and begged them to have it ready by Saturday; they'd made no promises but then they called out of the blue this morning to let him know that it was ready for him to pick up. Fortunately, Zeke had already left for the library when the phone rang.

Casey looked up at the door of their apartment, wondering if Zeke was home yet. He probably was; he'd had to go on campus for a little while but he'd told Casey he'd be waiting when they got home. And he'd let Casey know that he would be anxious to find out how it had gone.

"Casey."

"Hmm?"

"You promised to go to Sal's with me, remember?"

"Right now?"

"As opposed to when?" Sasha followed the direction of Casey's gaze and said, "Zeke will still be here when we get back. It'll save us taking off our shoes and putting them on again. We can just drop in at the pharmacy on the way."

"Okay, but, um...I need to do an errand for Zeke's birthday."

"Oh." Sasha considered that. "What sort of errand?"

"An errand, Sasha."

"Okay. So how do you want to do this?"

"I could meet you at Sal's in half an hour."

"Sounds like a plan," Sasha said, still sounding a little suspicious. "I'll get that prescription filled for you in the meantime."

They both got out of the car and, as on some silent, even subconscious agreement, both stopped; Casey looked across the hood at Sasha just as Sasha looked at him. Sasha was wearing a long, navy blue wool coat with a orange scarf knotted around his neck. He looked tall and elegant and tremendously regretful as he said, "Kitten...I only do things because I want to help you get better."

"I know."

"You still mad at me?"

Casey shook his head and said, "Can't stay mad at you."

At that, Sasha grinned widely. "So I can get started on making you mad all over again?"

"Yeah," Casey said. He forced a smile in return.

They picked their way through the half-frozen mud of the alleyway and set out to their separate destinations; Casey walked even more quickly than he usually did when he was at large in the world. He so wanted to get this outside part over with and get home to inside and something warm — such as Zeke's body, yes, that would just do. Outside was probably not so very cold, but it felt awful, raw, and damp in a way that went right through him. The sun didn't have much warmth in it today.

The photo shop was several blocks away and not the closest to where they lived, but he'd gone there because they did both photo development and art framing. He had selected a classic black wood frame and white matte to go with a black and white image, and the woman who did the work agreed with him that it had turned out very well. The framing cost quite a bit more than the film and the enlarging had, and there was nothing to be done about that. It helped that he'd been able to use a standard rather than a custom size, but he'd still have nothing to contribute to household expenses for a while. Not to mention Christmas — but there was no point in thinking about that.

On his way back, Casey passed by Zorbas's as usual, this time on the other side of the street. He spotted Thomas' car parked out in front. It had been there almost every day but this was the first time that Casey dared to more than register its presence. He didn't even dare go to Zorba's for a chai; Stokely had asked him a couple of days ago and his refusal was a shade on the hysterical side.

Now that he actually allowed himself to think about it, Casey realized that he was unredeemable. Because he did want to see Thomas again, and not just because he wanted to apologize. He wondered if Thomas would even talk to him after what had happened — but he was not going to go over there, even if Thomas seem to offer a sort of understanding that no one else could.

Sasha was holding a small, white paper bag and pacing anxiously on the sidewalk outside Sal's Grocery when, a bit later than he was expected to be, Casey trotted up. "I was getting a little worried, kitten..." Sasha's eyes took in the 14 x18 flat package Casey was carrying. It was wrapped simply in brown paper with a little bit of raffia ribbon tied around it. "Zeke's birthday present?"

"Yeah."

"What is it?"

"It's a secret," Casey hedged, suspecting that there was something a little self-serving about gifting someone a photograph that you had taken, even if that person was its subject. Whatever his intention, Casey wasn't sure of how it was going to go over.

"But it's not my birthday, is it?"

From the tone of that question, Casey grasped that Sasha had no intention of giving up his interrogation any time soon. "Um...it's a photo I took."

"With that camera that Charly gave you?"

"Yes."

"What of?"

"Don't you want to be surprised?"

Sasha sighed. "Okay...yes, I suppose I do."

Something passed very close behind Casey — a person, presumably — and made all the hair on his body stand up. He asked, trying to keep the whimper out of his voice, "Can we go in? Please?"

"Oh...sure. Of course." Sasha eyed the package one more time with rampant curiosity. "You ready to shop?"

Casey shrugged. "I guess."

He didn't have to be told that Sasha loved grocery shopping. Sasha was in this store almost every day; some days he would come back with an armful of things, other days with nothing. Today, he started by grabbing a cart. Without comment, Casey put Zeke's present in it, then took up a position at the requisite end and started to push it, following Sasha. He liked the idea of having it in front of him, a kind of battering ram to clear away any threatening shapes in front of him so he just had to keep watch over what was going on behind him.

"Let's see...I need ground sirloin...shallots..." Sasha muttered to himself, with no apparent intention of going to where the sirloin and the shallots were to be found. He was perusing the shelves as though he had absolutely nothing else to do, like he was waiting for an idea to spring. Sasha didn't like to make lists, Casey had noticed that before; he might have something in mind, but he mostly would stroll up and down the aisles until something took his fancy.

"I thought you were just making nachos," Casey said, holding onto his cart very tightly.

"I was."

"But...?"

"I can't help it, kitten, I have to have something a little more substantial...but since it's Zeke we're talking about I'm just going to make some really amazing hamburgers with a fresh mango salsa...I was thinking about homemade fries too...or maybe one of those tasty potato casseroles, those are make-ahead..."

Sasha's inner chef was warmed up and their pace was now, definitively, a crawl. Casey figured he'd already spent far more than the requisite number of minutes in public today and now he really was whining, far too disquieted to be ashamed by it. "Sasha..."

"What?" Sasha returned, then, catching a glimpse of Casey's expression, "Oh. We'll go faster."

He moved on ahead but Casey had become stuck behind two ladies with their carts, neither of whom wanted to move. He waited for them to see him, wondering if would make any difference to them if they knew they were in imminent danger of being mowed down. He made himself count to twenty and resorted to reading the nutritional labels on the cereal boxes that were within range — and finally, one of the women realized. "Sorry," she said briefly, obviously lying. She moved, and Casey pushed on after Sasha.

There were times when he really could scream with frustration. He wanted to be able to do these everyday, mundane things like everyone else. He wanted to go to school and be exposed to some glimmer of new information. He wanted to ride the bus to school with Zeke so he could see him more, keep an eye on him — but no that was the crazies talking again, and he was going to deal with her so he wouldn't have to think about those things...but he was just so fucking tired of all this and having resolved to go to battle wasn't making it any easier. In fact, he suspected that telling Dr. Yves about the aliens wasn't going to make a whit of difference.

But he couldn't let them — he couldn't let her beat him — no, it was not over, not yet, he would do what it took and somehow Zeke would have to understand. Except how could he understand, he would leave and Casey would be alone but there was no other way because any way you broke it down Casey would end up alone, probably wrapped in a straight jacket to boot, even if he did deal with her the point was making Zeke safe but Casey wouldn't be safe he would always wonder if they were coming for him and he'd be helpless there in his little room when they came for him...they'd come in and he'd be helpless and someone would say we'll deal with him and then he'd just have to wait...take me, I'm ready, take me please don't leave me alone again...

He pawed for the emergency tin that he always carried, momentarily forgetting it was empty. Terror stabbed him as he replayed the part of the scene where the doctor had refused him his pills. No Xanax....you'll just go without Xanax because you've been bad or you can beg Sasha for one if you think you need it. But he hadn't fucking damn it all to hell and every time he took one he really needed it. Really needed it, really really really...

The last of that thought was drowned in a chaotic roar.

"Casey."

Someone was calling him, always calling him, poking and prodding and nagging him, that voice.

"Casey!"

It was Sasha speaking in a voice of whispered urgency and Casey realized he was standing in the middle of tomatoes and carrots and peas and mushrooms. He didn't have any memory of travelling to the canned goods aisle.

"Kitten?" Sasha looked very pale. "You with me?"

Casey managed a nod.

"Thank god," Sasha breathed, his eyes going wet. He'd probably had visions of Casey making a scene in the middle of his haven, his home away from home.

"S-sorry," Casey slurred.

"It's okay." Sasha smoothed Casey's arm for a few seconds, then glanced aside at a middle-aged lady with a disapproving mouth. "What? You've never seen a man pawing another man in broad daylight before?" He sprouted a grin, probably hoping to get a giggle out of Casey.

Casey just couldn't excavate one for him, not this time. He was so very done with the outside world for today.

"Come on, kitten," Sasha said softly. "Let's go home." He nudged Casey gently along with the cart, and got them through the checkout and back onto the street as quickly as he could, which was not terribly quick because the girl at the register knew Sasha well and was accustomed to chatting with him. Sasha had to be a bit rude to get away.

Finally they were finally back on the sidewalk, laden with six bags and Zeke's birthday present. Casey was exhausted many times over. "Want a nap," he said, and yawned, shivering. It had been a cold day when he started out, but now the damp wind was getting right into his bones.

Sasha winced. "But, kitten, remember the doctor said we need to get you back into some kind of regular sleep pattern?"

Casey was overcome by resentment. "What if I have a panic attack in the middle of the night?" he challenged. "I'll be awake then for sure, especially since I can't have any Xanax. Or maybe I should just try to have them during the day — for convenience."

Sasha looked at him, startled no doubt at his tone of defiance. "Obviously, panic attacks are an exception, Casey."

Casey passed beyond apology to misery in an instant. He let his shoulders slump, devoid of even the will to apologize.

"What's all this ‘tude about, kitten?"

"Dunno," Casey said, but he did. It was the possibility that he would never get to the point where what he ate, when he slept — and now, how many pills he took — were not controlled and regulated. No, it wasn't even that. It was the very fact that he needed to be monitored. Poor, helpless, useless Casey who would kill himself if he got his hands on enough drugs. Dr. Chakri and the lot of them were foolish to think they could have actually prevented him if he were really determined.

Casey's phone alerted him that Zeke was calling. He pulled it out with gloved hands that were made even more clumsy by chill and anxiety. "Hello?"

"Casey? Where are you?" Zeke's voice was thick and congested. It sounded like his cold was in full flower now.

"Almost home."

"Almost, like where?"

"Less than a minute away."

"Oh." Zeke made a phlegm-ridden sound. "See you in a minute then."

When he hung up, Sasha said, "You had better give me that."

Casey looked down and realized he was still holding Zeke's package.

"You distract him," Sasha urged, "and I'll sneak it into my closet."

Zeke was waiting at the door, but fortuitously, he was completely fixated on Casey. "You said you'd be back by two," he accused. He merely raised his brows as Sasha scuttled by, heading for his own bedroom with the brown-paper package camouflaged on his other side. Zeke didn't even comment that Sasha had dropped four plastic bags of groceries on the floor for the interim, even though it was a thing almost unheard of. Casey put down his own two bags as Zeke moved in to hug him. At the last second before contact Zeke sneezed, showering Casey with moist, germ- ridden breath. "Agh...sorry!"

"Oh, well," Casey shrugged. Maybe he could be sick by tomorrow and he'd have to cancel his appointment.

"I didn't want you to catch it," Zeke mourned.

"Too late now." Casey sealed himself to Zeke, enjoying the feverish heat coming off his skin and soaking through his clothes. "I probably already caught it anyway."

Sasha had reemerged from his bedroom to ask, "Hey, Zeke, don't you still have a class right now?"

"It's the last one for the course, Sasha," Zeke grouched, "and yeah, I skipped it...It's a review anyway and it so happens I have just over twenty-four hours to write ten pages. I thought I might as well get an early start."

"So you're going to be up all night?" Sasha said. He retrieved all six bags of groceries from the hallway and took them into the kitchen to unpack them. "Poor thing."

"Yeah," Zeke sighed. He loosened his embrace with Casey, leaving one arm draped around him. "Um...Case, I really don't want to disturb you, maybe Sasha would let you bunk in with him tonight."

Casey didn't look in Sasha's direction; he replied quickly and truthfully, "A little noise doesn't bother me."

"This time I'll be at it all night, Case."

Sasha said, "Sure, you can sleep with me, kitten. You know I like the cuddles."

"I don't frigging want to!" Casey burst out.

Sasha stopped what he was doing. Zeke stepped back. They both looked at him. "I think I'm hurt," Sasha mused.

Casey felt his lip tremble. "You'll...be at work until late," he faltered.

"True," Sasha said. "But what does that have to do with anything?"

Which meant, Why are you being terrible to me, kitten, when I'm just trying to help? and he knew he was being terrible and he hated that he was this way but he couldn't help it. It wasn't acceptable that he and Zeke sleep apart, especially now and hadn't Zeke just been on campus where she could get to him and the point of the matter was he wantedneededwanted Zeke to take him tonight with that slow, silent slide of flesh against flesh and it didn't matter about the raw skin and the bruising and anything at all that hurt. It was the only part of him that worked — so, yes, he would get in Zeke's way if he had to, he would seduce, he would pout, he would even lie because Zeke didn't know just how little time they had.

"I guess...we'll see how it goes," Zeke allowed. "So what did Dr. Chakri say?"

Sasha raised his brows, waiting for Casey to reply, then replied himself, "I guess you'd say she read my kitten the riot act."

"About what?"

"About the fact that he hasn't been taking care of himself properly. Not eating or sleeping right and she — do you want to tell him, kitten, or shall I?"

Casey shrugged, feeling like he was four and his mother had just caught him drawing on the wall with crayons.

"I guess that means I tell him. Dr. Chakri is worried at how quickly Casey has been going through his Xanax and in particular that he's using them as a sleeping pill. So she's only allowing him a few for absolute emergencies and I'm hanging on to them."

Zeke's eyes were unbearably hot on Casey's face and he felt his head and shoulders slump. Headline: Casey Connor, renowned alien-slayer, is nothing but a strung-out junkie.

"That seems extreme," Zeke remarked, with conspicuous pity.

Sasha shrugged. "According to the doctor, it's necessary...and she did give him a new prescription for another kind of anxiety medication. Don't forget to take one before bed, kitten — and on that cheery note, I need to be getting to work." He took the white paper bag from his pocket, removed one of the bottles inside and handed it to Casey. Then he went off down the hallway to change, taking the other, more precious bottle with him.

"What's the new medication?" Zeke asked.

Casey offered it to him for his reading pleasure.

"‘Klonopin'," Zeke noted. "You take it every day?"

"Yeah...but it takes a while to work."

"Will it stop the panic attacks?"

"Supposed to."

Zeke rested a hand on Casey's arm, briefly. "Well...maybe it's time to try something new." He placed the bottle of pills on the counter.

Sasha returned down the hallway, having dressed quickly in his white tunic and kerchief. "Kitten...if you want to crash in my bed you're welcome. I'll try not to be too late but you know how it is..." His voice trailed away. "Holiday season...it's pretty busy." He shrugged his coat on, and the running shoes that he always wore for work. "See you later...kitten, remember what we talked about."

Once Sasha was out the door, Zeke queried, "What we talked about?"

"Oh...he...I'm not supposed to — to have any naps."

"I could have told you that," Zeke sniffed. It was a miserable congested sound. "I'm going to have a short one...but you are forbidden to fall asleep, because I need you to wake me up."

"Okay."

"Maybe...you can lay down with me for a bit, though...if you want."

It took a little bit of choreography to get comfortable on their bed, under the comforter because, at some point, his afghan seemed to have migrated permanently to the living room couch. Zeke waited until Casey had nested in the position of choice, curled in against him, then asked quietly, "What did the doctor say about the bruises?"

"Nothing much," Casey answered. "I told her how I got them and she didn't say anything about it." He chewed on his lip, revisiting his answer. He was well aware that there were rules about lying, but the rules didn't like to admit that there were times when lying was absolutely necessary. On the other hand, Sasha would probably talk to Zeke at some point about it with the result that Casey would be caught out, so he might as well mention it now. "Except...she said I should try to take it easy...with..." It was fucking hard to say it. "We should take it easy...you and me."

He expected an immediate protest but instead Zeke just said, "That's probably a good idea."

Which meant that the end was coming sooner than expected. Casey was silenced, gaping, unable to think of a persuasive response that didn't involve confessing what he was going to do tomorrow.

"I mean," Zeke said, and he sounded very tired, like he just wanted to placate Casey so he could get on to the priority item of sleep. "Until I get through this end of term stuff, at least."

"Oh," was all Casey could say.

"Case...you know, it's not that I don't want you in the room while I'm working, you understand? It's kind of...I'm afraid I'll get distracted and I won't get this done."

"I promise not to distract you."

Zeke shook his head, shaking Casey along with it. "You distract me just by breathing." Casey felt a hand along his neck, a long, gentle stroke of Zeke. "Do it for me, sleep in Sasha's bedroom tonight?"

"Okay," Casey agreed. But could you just fuck me first, he cried silently, even though I'm going to disobey you and break our arrangement and who knows where I'll end up. It might just be our last time — but hey, I understand you've got to do this paper so you can be amazing and brilliant and go on to have an amazing life as an academic while I rot in some nuthouse.

"Thanks," Zeke said. He stroked Casey, he played with his skin and his hair while he fell asleep as though Casey were a favourite stuffed bear and Casey didn't have either the will or the desire to pull away even though it wasn't nearly adequate or satisfying... but he knew it was all he was going to get tonight and he had never felt quite so alone.

 

When Zeke was in grade nine there had been this substitute teacher — he still recalled the name even though the man was only around the one time and was never invited back, it was Mr. Regimbold — who had a very memorable approach to the English language. His drawl, and his almost gentrified language at times, suggested an origin in southern state; also, he had a barrel of quaint stories and expressions that the fourteen-year-old Zeke had never heard before. On that single day that he had taught them, he presented himself in the classroom and informed them that he had just stayed up all night — cause unspecified — and that his eyes felt like "two piss-holes in a snowbank." Zeke had always wondered what the fuck he meant.

Now he knew.

He had been sitting hunched in the lousy computer chair all night, staring at that screen by the light of a single desk lamp. Occasionally he would look over his shoulder at Casey, who was sleeping soundly, and grit his teeth. Officially, he was happy that Casey was having no difficulties getting a full night's sleep, but in the deep, petty corners of his soul he was burning with envy.

This was going to be absolutely the last sociology course Zeke ever took. Maybe he hadn't learned a fucking thing from the professor but there was a lesson here nonetheless — that a course might sound incredibly intriguing from its description in the bulletin and still be a complete dud. He would apply this new knowledge when he selected his courses for next term, a task that was awaiting as soon as he finished this bloody paper.

Part of this was his own fault, though. He'd picked what he thought was a really interesting topic for a paper, only to discover two days ago that there wasn't much material on it unless he wanted to spend years of his life doing primary research. So with just over forty-eight hours left he had changed the topic to something more straightforward and then spent a solid eight hours in an emergency research session at the library yesterday. Another lesson he'd learned during this term was that research could be fun, but it hadn't been fun yesterday — not when he'd been forced to stretch three tissues to deal with an entire day's worth of free-flowing snot, not when his head had been bursting and he just wanted to lay down and absolutely not when he'd been hyper-conscious that while he was buried in dusty stacks of books Sasha had been escorting Casey to see Dr. Chakri, with the specific objective of getting her to agree that Zeke was an abusive, violent creep.

Normally Zeke would have had full confidence in Casey's ability to defend him from the charge. But Casey's passionate vindication of Zeke couldn't have gone over very well when he was banged up and strung out the way he was; the more he argued on Zeke's behalf, the worse it must have seemed. Worst of all, Zeke didn't even have time right now to worry about what conclusions the doctor had drawn.

On top of all that, he felt fairly certain that everything he'd just written was nonsensical garbage. In fact, there had been about ten minutes in the depths of the night when he was determined to just forget this fucking course, let it be an ‘F'. His ego could handle it — but that moment had passed and he realized that he actually did want to excel this time. He was not going to satisfy himself with knowing that he could excel if he wanted to. Which still left him with a garbage paper, but there was nothing more he could do with it until he grabbed a few hours of sleep. He hadn't typed anything for almost twenty minutes now, and his mind was conspicuously devoid of words.

He stretched out on the bed, not bothering to undress or get under the covers.

It literally felt as though he had just lain down and blinked. He pulled his eyes open, jolted by the knowledge that time was getting away from him. The clock told him had slept four hours, not nearly enough to feel human but still too long to leave him with enough time to make this paper beautiful.

Coughing and swallowing phlegm, he hauled himself to the kitchen and found Casey, who despite his "emergency" visit to the doctor yesterday actually appeared a lot healthier than Zeke felt. Casey was fully dressed for the day, his face scrubbed, hair perfect in its funky imperfection, probably with no effort whatsoever on Casey's part. He was leaning back against the counter holding a cup of suspicious, dark liquid. His slight start of guilt was a dead give away.

"Is that coffee?" Zeke demanded, pointing at Casey's cup.

"Um," Casey said. "Yeah."

All sorts of emotional matter welled up, stuff that Zeke didn't have time to analyze — but he instantly acted on it. "No way," he said. "Pour it out."

Casey looked outraged but he obeyed, tipping his cup out in the sink.

"Sorry," Zeke muttered. "But you did have the riot act read to you...that was what Sasha said, right?" He stumbled to the counter and poured himself a cup of his own. "Did you take the new meds?"

"Yes," Casey replied stiffly. "I took the new meds."

"Do you feel any different?"

"Not yet."

Zeke thought he saw a shudder go through Casey and he wanted to ask about it but he noted the time on the microwave and muttered, "Shit."

"What?"

"It's twelve-thirty and I have to do one more read-through." To underscore his misery, Zeke indulged himself in a brief cough. "But I can barely think."

"It's done," Casey announced simply.

"Huh?"

"I edited it for you this morning. It's all done. You'll have to fix your citations but that's all."

"Edited...when?"

"While you were sleeping."

"You mean...but...on the computer?"

Okay, so he was tracking a little more slowly than usual today. Patiently, Casey nodded and it started to sink into Zeke's skull that his ordeal was nearly over. There was another burst of feeling inside his chest, this time intensely enjoyable. He went with it, grabbing Casey and yanking him in his direction.

"You rock my world," he rasped, then launched into a passionate smothering, excluding any viral considerations from his thought processes.

"Consider it...an..." Casey was having trouble getting words out. "...an early birthday present."

"Does that mean I don't get anything else?" Zeke whispered.

"Nothing...you don't already get."

Zeke stepped back, considering the face in front of him. Casey might have been teasing — he was almost, but not quite deadpan — or maybe he was trying to tell Zeke that he couldn't afford to get him a birthday gift. "Well, this is the best gift ever," Zeke declared. "I can't think of anything better...can I go look at it?"

Casey now wore a slight grin. "Knock yourself out."

Zeke hastened back to the bedroom and the computer; Casey followed Zeke in and stood behind the computer chair while Zeke riveted himself to the screen. He read a few paragraphs and it was still all his material, just tidied up. Casey had delivered him from his suffering — and maybe the paper hadn't been all garbage if Casey was able to fix it up in an hour or so.

"This is awesome," he announced, still reading. "Hey, did I mention that you're awesome and you have the most beautiful brain I ever saw?"

"So it's okay?"

"It's..." Zeke swivelled and grasped Casey's forearm. "Come here, I need to thank you properly."

Casey moved in the circle of Zeke's arms, tentative at first — but suddenly it was as though something broke and he melted into Zeke while his arms went around Zeke's neck in a kind of death grip.

It was an unambiguous warning. Even sick and exhausted, Zeke had no trouble receiving it, but his initial, uncensored reaction was Must he do this now, can he not just act like everything's okay until tomorrow? I am not going to ask him about it now, I don't have time and that's okay isn't it for me to just look after myself for a little while? That went through him, and then, next, he remembered how stressed he had been that Sasha had been doing all the caretaking and not really consulting with him and that was followed by shame at his less than noble thoughts. Especially since Casey had just rescued him big time.

"Okay," Zeke said. "What's this about?"

"What's...wh-what?"

"Something's going on...you're all intense and shaky."

"It's...it's nothing."

"Uh-huh...really feels like nothing too."

Casey let go of Zeke and stepped back. He had schooled his face into a mask of no-more-than-typical anxiety. "It makes me n-nervous...not having Xanax anymore."

Zeke took that in and decided he didn't buy it. He said, "Case, I know I've been off in my own little world and..." He coughed slightly. "...I promise, as of tomorrow you're going to have all of my attention. No, as of five o'clock today."

"But...you still have exams."

"The first one's not for over a week. I'm taking a few days off...so we should talk about holiday arrangements too."

"Holiday arrangements?"

"You know that thing on December twenty-fifth — " Zeke broke off, apprehending that Casey was more or less a quivering wreck. "All right, what's wrong?"

He hadn't mean to sound that impatient but he did, and it was hardly surprising that Casey shook his head.

Zeke's brow furrowed. "You're going to see Yves, now, right? That was today?"

The trembling worsened. "Yeah."

"And what are you..." Zeke closed his eyes and battled with the urge to question Casey yet again about what he was planning to reveal. Tactically speaking, it wasn't a good idea to torture Casey about it over and over because eventually Casey would spill his guts to Yves or Charly or the world at large out of nothing but obstinate resentment. Yeah, that would be perfectly in character for Casey Connor...Remind him about being different one too many times and he would eventually try to show you up by becoming the most alienated person on the planet.

Casey was staring, caught up in dread of the rest of Zeke's sentence.

"You aren't — going to — " Zeke stumbled, agonizing.

He hated to sound like the prototype of the controlling boyfriend...but he also had a responsibility that mustn't be abdicated just because some folks thought he sounded unreasonable. After all, Casey had told him outright that he wanted to speak to Dr. Yves about the aliens. The fact that Casey didn't really want to do it and was just saying it to avoid his other issues did not make it less of a threat.

Still, Zeke was much too tired for arguments, tears, passive aggression or manipulation...in other words, the usual. He tried on a shrug. "So I'm a control freak — but I know how this is supposed to work. I'm supposed to trust you, Case."

There was silence as Casey continued to stare.

Sasha called from elsewhere in the apartment, "Come on, Casey, time to go!"

"See you later," Zeke said. He smiled briefly at Casey, then turned back to the monitor. It was actually quite easy to put the Yves problem out of his mind. Behind him, he heard Casey leave the room without a word.

He zipped through the paper, tweaking the citations and let it print while he got showered and cleaned up. Then he was headed for the bus stop — and all in less than an hour.

He skipped his usual smoke while waiting for the bus; he'd tried smoking yesterday, but with his congestion a cigarette actually tasted quite disgusting.

 

The last sentence of Zeke's paper read Until the pendulum swings again, gay communities in large urban centers will enjoy a certain degree of tolerance, if not actual acceptance. Sitting cross-legged on the computer chair, Casey changed the will to a may and saved the document one more time.

The bedroom door was ajar; Sasha pushed in with a "Kitten..." and an "oh," as he saw Zeke sprawled on top of the bed in his clothes, sleeping hard after a long night of academic stylings.

"It's chilly out today," Sasha noted.

Casey was already prepared, wearing at least four layers of clothing, including two of his thickest pairs of socks. It would pay off, though, because today was undoubtedly the coldest day they'd seen so far in this city. Today it was virtually winter; he could feel the cold coming off the window panes. It even looked like snow, although he'd been told that didn't really happen much here.

Sasha whispered, "Your appointment's in forty-five minutes."

Casey was more than aware of it.

"If you're going to shower..." Sasha added.

"Already had one." Casey had bathed methodically and gotten dressed through shivers, and he'd diligently taken his pills although he didn't see much point to it now.

While Sasha showered, Casey listened to the water run in the bathroom and stared at the unconscious, innocent Zeke for a while. Then he took out his journal and opened it to the last entry. I know what I have to do, was all he had written. Almost a week ago now. He added, in handwriting that was severely compromised by nerves, So just in case I disappear I want to write it down...I'm going to tell Dr. Yves my big secret today. I don't know what's going to happen and it's gotten almost impossible to think through why I'm doing this. I remember something about not wanting to be afraid all the time but that's pretty funny right now.

He closed the book and put it back in its usual resting place.

There was a fragrance of coffee in the air. Casey decided that it didn't matter one way or another if he had a little caffeine today; he was already a mess. He went to kitchen and filled a cup, doctoring it to his liking. His intention was to wake up Zeke in just a few minutes, right after he had gotten down a few substantial slurps of coffee — but Zeke woke himself, appearing in the kitchen before Casey could even take a sip of his contraband.

Casey had never thought that Zeke could look so bad. His eyes were red and it sounded like he was breathing through liquid. His mood evidently matched his physical well-being too — although he cheered considerably when he discovered Casey's intervention on his paper. It was all Casey could do not to fall on Zeke crying for forgiveness for the betrayal he was about to commit.

Of course, even as sick as he was, Zeke remembered to worry about the fact that Casey was going to see Dr. Yves. No, of course he remembered. He was Zeke Tyler — brilliant, perceptive...devious. He had spent weeks, months controlling every aspect of Casey's life — fuck, he had already done it this morning without a moment's hesitation — but now, now when Casey made a decision to truly rebel, that was when Zeke chose to offer trust? And then to turn his back on Casey at the critical moment, like he was daring him to be trustworthy. And say, oh- so-casual, "See you later."

Casey couldn't take the risk that the last thing he ever said to Zeke was a lie. Sasha summoned him and he went, squandering the opportunity to say something meaningful.

They took Zeke's car; Casey stared out the window and gnawed on his fingernails until they were bleeding stubs. Zeke was just too fucking smart, there was no way he wouldn't find out. And he was also wonderfully generous; he had told them they were to use the car whenever necessary to get to appointments or work... still, why shouldn't Zeke be able to take the car himself instead of having to wait for the stupid bus all the time, Zeke should have the best of things and not be lied to or betrayed...Casey didn't deserve Zeke and Zeke would be well rid of him...I know what I have to...the hell I do. I don't know, I don't know a damn thing. She's not going to believe me because no one ever does...This is going to be bad, Zeke's right, Zeke's always right...

"Kitten...we're here."

Casey looked out his window; it framed a perfect view of the front of Dr. Yves' building. He tried, he really did, but he couldn't seem to compel himself to move his legs, or even to open the door. Sasha had to get out and come around to the other side of the car to pry him out, employing a excess of comforting nonsense to get him up the steps and into the reception area: "It'll be all right. Just open the door, stand up...that's it...it's going to be okay, you know...it's going to be fine, kitten..."

They were still a few minutes early so the receptionist asked them to have a seat. Sasha took a seat but Casey couldn't; he applied himself to his chosen sector of carpet and paced. He was never going to get to see Zeke open his presents and he was glad that his was finished, hiding in Sasha's closet, Zeke would see it someday and know how he felt about him...but he was never going to see his parents again —

"Kitten, would you please...please sit down?"

Just at a nervous glance, Sasha was doing his utmost to model the proper sort of waiting room behaviour. "Can't," Casey said.

"Yes, you can. You're making me want to crawl the walls."

Casey made himself sit, although he made no promises about being still. "Sasha," he whispered. "‘m...sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

"For everything...every t-time I...I was mean or cranky...h-hurt your f- feelings..."

A warm hand closed on his. "I know, kitten...but somehow I think you'll get to talk to me again."

"I don't know."

"Yes...and you can do this."

"I'm..." betraying him again...I can't stop betraying him...

Somehow, Sasha heard what he didn't say. "This is for Zeke too, kitten. Just remember that."

"Casey?"

It was her. He stood up, seriously considering running.

"Hey..." Sasha observed, getting up. He looked over Casey's shoulder. "Dr. Yves, right?"

Casey angled himself away from Dr. Yves, towards Sasha and took hold of Sasha's shirt with one hand. He didn't burrow. He stood close, holding onto Sasha. He saw where the shirt had a tiny speck of tomato sauce on it but still it smelled like Sasha's aftershave and laundry soap and deodorant. It smelled like safety.

"Hello," said Dr. Yves. "You must be Sasha."

"Yes." Somewhat awkwardly, Sasha reached around Casey and held out his hand. "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise. Are you joining the session today?"

"Um," Sasha said, carefully peeling Casey's hand off him. "I don't think so." He gave Casey a little nudge. "Go on, I'll be waiting out here, kitten."

As he trudged after Dr. Yves, Casey reflected on how amazing it was that his feet were actually working. His body was so drenched in adrenaline that he could feel virtually nothing; only his eyes told him that he was walking.

Dr. Yves held the door for him, ushering him in. "Have a seat, Casey."

"I'd prefer to stand."

"But I would prefer it if you sat."

The slight tone of command was helpful. She had gone to sit in her usual place behind her desk and so he took his chair — but he didn't sit back and he most definitely didn't repose.

"I don't think I've ever seen you this agitated before, Casey. Can you tell me what it's about?"

"No," he blurted. "And I don't want to count or breathe — but — okay — I'm — I guess — "

"Take it easy."

"I can't." He was up again, out of the chair but rooted in place by indecision. "I think — I have to leave."

"Please don't do that, Casey, please sit. I know it was hard for you to come back but you can trust me."

"Um...see...I don't know that, I...I come here — come h-here all those weeks and I never know what you think --- " He got a short taste of oxygen "— and I think that you probably hate me now or if you didn't you do hate me now — "

"Sit down, Casey, please."

Well, his knees were happy to give way; he didn't resist them, landing once again in the chair.

"For a start, I don't hate you, Casey. I've never hated you — and I'm very glad you brought this up. Are you thinking maybe that I'm angry because you didn't show up last time?"

He did his best to nod.

"I'm not angry, Casey. I'm very pleased you're back. That last session didn't end well and I've been concerned — "

"Were you really?"

"How do you mean?"

"Are you really c-concerned about me? Do — do you think about me when you leave the office and wonder if I'm off killing myself?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I want to know how much I...if you..." He couldn't say it, it was somehow too revealing.

"You want to know if I care about you," she deduced.

This time he couldn't move his head at all; he couldn't even look at her.

"I do care for you, Casey, but it's a professional kind of caring only. I think about you in the context of my work, which I do sometimes take home with me...but mostly I try to leave it here. I think it would be dangerous and unprofessional to care more than that for my patients. Does that set your mind at ease any?"

He made himself breathe out. "Ac-actually it makes...me feel...better...kinda comforting."

Dr. Yves settled back in her chair, like she was getting comfortable for the long haul. "How is it comforting?"

"Be-because you...won't...you won't muddy the waters with a bunch of personal stuff, I...I had another sh-shrink...who did that."

"How so, Casey?"

"Well, I'm...he's from Herrington and I'm from Herrington...he knew me already, he had...ideas about me." The pounding in his chest, which had begun to subside a little over the past minute, revived with a vengeance.

"What sort of ideas?"

"Okay, this is...I kinda...I've...decided to tell you something."

"Yes?"

"It's...it's hard...really..."

"Would this be one of those things you weren't able to tell me before?"

"Yeah...and I don't know if should...still."

"It's okay, Casey, just tell me. Take your time. I don't have anything scheduled after you today, so it's all right if we go a bit over." When he didn't start speaking she asked, "Why now, Casey? What changed your mind?"

"Basically? I...think I'm losing it. I have all these scary thoughts and dreams and I'm scared and pissed off — and Zeke said I shouldn't talk about it, he made me promise and I agreed and he doesn't know I'm doing this but I just can't do it anymore..."

"Breathe, Casey."

He obeyed; it was a pitiful, shallow gasp.

"It's painful," she said calmly, "to keep something inside. The longer you keep it the harder it gets and the more twisted up inside we get."

"I know," he gulped. "I know because I don't know what I'm doing anymore and I did something...I never thought I would do."

"What's that?"

He clenched his elbows, holding himself. "I don't know if I can say, it's too..."

"You're doing really well, Casey, don't stop now."

"Okay, I...so I had a fight with Zeke and Winona showed up at our door and I thought for sure they were going to hurt me so I ran away and I just...there's this man I know but he's basically a stranger and I came onto him, I knew it was wrong but I did it...I did it because I wanted to hurt myself and I wanted to hurt Zeke...and yesterday I...I was at the doctor and I was scared...so scared I would have done anything to get her to move...I know she's not — not the — not one of — but sometimes I can't help but think — "

"Not one of what?" Dr. Yves asked, very calmly.

"This is what I was going to tell you about..." His throat was so dry he could barely swallow. He pulled up his knees and put his feet on the chair, unable to care what befell the cushion. "I'll be in so much trouble when he finds out!" he sobbed, burying his face.

"Trouble from Zeke?"

"Yeah."

"What sort of trouble?"

"He'll b-be m-mad...might not f-forgive me..."

"What will happen if he gets mad?"

Casey jerked his head up. "He doesn't hit me. Everyone thinks that but it's not true. He might yell and say things but he doesn't ever...lose control..." A sort of numb acceptance now began to spread through him, as he began to know, really know that he was really going to really do this. "That's the thing about Zeke...He's very...very controlled."

"I believe you, Casey."

"He's...he so used to being in charge."

"And he's good at it, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"All right, but I want to stick to where we were going a second ago, Casey. What is it you want to tell me?"

The numb feeling was all through his body. Casey mumbled, not caring if she heard or not, "He's going to be really hurt."

"But this is something that you've decided you need to do, isn't it."

"Yes."

"Tell me, Casey. You can do it — just say it. It's just words...just sound and air put together."

He tilted a look at her. "It isn't what you think."

"I have no assumptions about it, Casey. Just go ahead."

"Okay, so...when I was s-sixteen..."

"Yes?"

It seemed that he had been fighting this battle forever — not just since he left high school nor since he met Roy nor since he and Zeke came to Seattle, nor since he came into this room — no, it had been his whole life, it seemed, and he was so ready to give this problem over to someone else, let them solve it. Except they — she — wouldn't be able to solve it for him, because it was his. It belonged to him. His gift. It had to be Casey Connor against the aliens, no one else.

"Say it, Casey."

He said, "Something happened at my school...it was in the papers...the news. It happened but a lot of people think it didn't and they blamed me."

"What happened?"

In the end, he just let the syllables form and go about their way: "Aliens invaded my high school." And then he watched.

Dr. Yves blinked slowly. "Say that again?"

"Aliens...invaded my school."

He could tell that she was stunned — but in proper psychiatrist form, she tried not to react. He went on, "You're already thinking I'm nuts, I know that. No one believed me before and I don't expect you to now but it's true...it got national news, we were in Time magazine and everything."

"I remember the story," she said slowly. "I think I saw something about it on TV. That was you?"

"Yes, and Zeke and Stokely and...there were five of us but I was the one who did it."

"Did what?"

"Killed her."

"Killed...who?"

"The alien queen."

It appeared that shock had caught up with Dr. Yves. She was taking a brief time-out, a few seconds where it was quite obvious that she needed to regain her composure — and Casey tried to comprehend what he had done. It was entirely possible that he had just nailed the lid on his own coffin, he might just be totally fucked now...but she wasn't going to let him see it if he was. After that pause, she went on like they were chatting about what he'd had for breakfast. "What...What do these aliens look like?"

There was no point in holding back now. If he was fucked, he should just be well and truly fucked.

"They look like us," he replied.

"How's that?"

"I mean, they're actually like...well, most of them are like slugs but then there's the queen, she controls them. They go into your ear or your mouth and then you're one of them. You look like a regular person but you're under her control...that's what happened, they got the entire town, everyone at my school. At the end there was only me and Zeke left and Zeke got knocked out so it was just me...and the...and Mary Beth."

"Mary Beth?"

"She was supposed to be a new student but she was actually the queen, and in the end she was chasing me but I killed her."

"How did you kill her?"

"With scat — that's this chemical concoction that Zeke was making. It dried them out, they were from an ocean planet so they needed a lot of water and the scat was full of caffeine. When I stuck it in her she died and everyone turned back."

"Everyone, who?"

"Everyone in Herrington."

"So everyone in Herrington was an alien."

"Yeah...but no one will ever talk about it except me. I told the police, I told everyone and they all listened and then they — they wrote these things that made me sound like some crazy kid who...who — and my parents won't even admit it happened, Zeke doesn't want me to talk about it...I asked him twice and he said no, he thinks I should talk about other things but he doesn't realize this is...this is..."

"It's good that you told me this, Casey," Dr. Yves said.

"Do you believe me?"

She paused, replied, "I believe that you believe it."

"But it's true! Everyone knows it, they just won't admit it...and maybe the F.B.I. know it too because there was the — the remains — still there in the gym at the end...maybe they covered it up." He was watching her face as he spoke, and he saw nothing to reassure himself. "I'm telling the truth, I swear it."

"I know you are, Casey."

"You think I should be in a hospital now, don't you?"

Dr. Yves' reaction was not what he might have hoped for; it was not surprise, amusement or outrage. She said, obviously choosing her words with great caution, "Casey, the issue isn't whether it happened or not. There are plenty of delusional people — not that I necessarily think that you're delusional — plenty of people walking around who are clinically psychotic but they're not locked up because they're harmless and they can take care of themselves, with help. My biggest concern is if you're hurting yourself...or someone else."

"But — I didn't have a choice," he whispered.

She went on as though she hadn't heard him. "To be honest, Casey, I don't know what to think about this. I can tell you that you don't act or talk like a person who's psychotic, but I am quite concerned about your well-being. I'm thinking we should revisit your diagnosis, that's for sure, but I don't want you to go home and worry that I'm going to have you carted off to the hospital. If there was ever a time that I thought you should be in a hospital, I would hope that we could discuss it and make a decision about it together."

That wasn't encouraging either — and to think that he had done this to himself. Zeke was going to be so disgusted with him. How is it that you never learned when to keep your mouth shut, Casey? I try and try to help you, to show you and you just blab everything when it's so easy to impersonate normalcy, don't you get it? And I thought you were smart.

Casey stammered, "That — that's just what Zeke's afraid of."

"How so?"

"Zeke is afraid...I think because he had to handle the doctors and everything last summer when I was sick, and...I don't know, he doesn't like to talk about it at all but I think he feels like it was his fault."

"That's understandable, Casey, although I'm sure he did the best he could...Do you think he might be willing to come back here and talk about it?"

"No, I...I don't want him to know I told you."

"You don't think he deserves to know about what you just shared with me?"

"Of course he deserves to."

"What will happen if he finds out?"

"He'll be mad, hurt...he'll leave me. Dr. Chakri...you don't know how much crap I've been putting him through lately, this might be the final straw...He's...he's like obsessed with me not talking about this. I mean, we were at a friend's for Thanksgiving and she's kind of interested in the alien thing so she tried to talk to me about it and he freaked out."

"Why do you think he ‘freaked out'?"

"He would say he's scared of losing me."

"But what do you think?"

Casey shrugged. "I don't know."

"You talk all the time about how you're afraid of him leaving you, Casey, and meanwhile it sounds like he's afraid of you leaving him. Don't you think that's kind of interesting?"

Casey shook his head. "I think it's more about him losing control."

"Control of you?"

"Control of everything."

"Are you mad at him for wanting to control you?"

"No. I don't blame him."

Dr. Yves helped herself to another short time-out to consult her notes. When the five seconds were over, she resumed, "Okay, let's step back for a second. You've just told me something huge about yourself...because it was something you thought I needed to know, and you're right, I do need to know this...I remember us discussing your fears about 'being hurt' by people, just people in general, do you still have those fears?"

"Yes," Casey replied, knowing an unexpected, fearsome thrill. It was the wondrous sense that someone was about to understand something about him where they hadn't before. It was scary...but he wanted it. He wanted it so very —

"So trying to put this together now...Is it that you fear they are aliens? Is that what you're thinking when you look at a person and think they might hurt you?"

"Yes."

"And how does this connect to your panic attacks?"

"I'm...not always thinking about aliens when I have a panic attack, but a lot of the time...I'll look at someone and there'll be something about the way they talk or move and next thing I know I can't breathe. I just don't want to be around people because any one of them could be...one of them. They could have gone anywhere, not just Herrington, they could be like bees with hives...one queen to a hive. Maybe they're all over, maybe..."

"Maybe I'm one of them?" Dr. Yves supplied.

"Yes."

"And yet you've chosen to trust me."

He stared.

"What I mean," she said, "is I can understand how the world must seem like a very scary place to you. If all this happened as you say, it only stands to reason that you would have these worries but still you come here, you trust me enough to tell me. I think that's because you have a really good reason for telling me."

"What's that?"

"You want to get well, Casey."

He had no idea why that bothered him as much as it did. He returned, "I just can't keep coming here — I mean, I have to come here, Zeke and Sasha won't let me not come here but I can't talk about being afraid and not...talk about the aliens."

"I think you're right, Casey, but I also think that there's a bit more to it."

"Like what?"

"Well, if you really believed that everyone was an alien why would you bother to come here or take your medications or do any of the things that Dr. Yves wants you to do to get healthy? Perhaps on some level, you know that I'm not an alien."

"No," he protested. "I'm telling you something that happened and I can't — can't stop be afraid — that it's still happening. I try to do normal things because there's nothing else to do but I can't just forget — "

"I'm not trying to negate your fear, Casey. Your fear is real, no question about it. I treat the fear as real regardless of whether or not it really happened. But think about it...your fear is that you're not safe, that I or someone else you run into is going to hurt you." There was a frown of concentration on Dr. Yves' face. "It occurs to me...this only became a problem recently, correct?"

"What do you mean?"

"That it was only this past summer that you developed this severe anxiety. It may be built around something that happened when you were sixteen but it might have been triggered by something that happened very recently."

This was turning into a replay of the last time, the session with Zeke, and he couldn't, he had to stop it...He argued, fingers clutching onto the worn denim he was wearing, "I've always thought about them — about the aliens. When I lived in Roy's apartment I used to be afraid to go out. I hardly ever went anywhere."

"Yet you didn't have the same kind of anxiety about it that you have now, where you panic when a person looks at you or accidentally bumps into you."

Casey didn't answer.

Dr. Yves waited until she was sure that she wasn't getting a response from him, then said, "Well, this is going to take some time to work through. Let me ask this, though...What exactly would the alien do to you that frightens you?"

He blinked hard, trying to figure out where she was heading. "I...don't understand."

"Would they kill you?"

"No...they would make me one of them."

"Would that hurt?"

"...she said it would be painless."

"She?"

"Mary Beth. She talked about how it would be so wonderful and so safe...fearless, she said...like..."

"Like?"

"Like...just belonging somewhere."

"Would the process be painful?"

"At first...I guess...but it wouldn't be me anymore."

"Like you all were a part of her?"

"Yeah."

"I see." Dr. Yves shifted her weight and looked pensive. "That's very interesting, Casey."

"Wh-what is?"

"You see, it's a classic anxiety, the loss of identity. I know you like to watch movies, Casey, you must have noticed how frequently that sort of terror is played out...in movies, books...it's all over, this tension between wanting to belong and fighting for individuality. There are entire schools of psychology that are preoccupied with studying identity-formation. Because we don't start out as individuals, you see. We all start as part of someone else and we gradually learn to have boundaries."

He stared suspiciously at her. "You aren't thinking about writing a paper, are you?"

She laughed, and that was somehow comforting; she wouldn't laugh at his jokes if she thought he was a dangerous psychotic, would she?

"No, I'm not thinking about writing a paper...but this is very good, Casey. I think we're having a good session, and we've still got a lot to talk about — but before you go I want to make sure we discuss a few other issues."

"Um...all right."

"How are things with Zeke?"

"What do you mean?"

"I'm pretty sure you were furious with him when you left here last time. How did that work out?"

Casey clutched his hands, scanning his words before answering. "We had a major fight. I didn't really talk to him for a few days."

"You must have been extremely angry, then."

"I guess."

"Have you made up now?"

"Yeah...pretty much."

"Pretty much?"

"Zeke's all worn out with end of term stuff. He's sick and...in a bad mood and he's still — " Casey almost choked on these words. He couldn't think about what was going to happen later, how and if he was going to be successful in hiding this. " — worried that I'm going to tell you about the — the aliens."

"And yet you decided that I had to be told. That took a lot of strength on your part."

"Yeah, although I'm not sure that I did the right thing now."

"I'm sure you did, Casey." Dr. Yves tilted her head, thinking. "I suppose that Sasha knows about the aliens?"

"Yes."

"And he knew that you were going to talk about them today, and that's why he came with you?"

"Yes, he helped to convince me."

"Sasha is a really good, caring friend, isn't he?"

"Yes," Casey answered, suspicion tingling. "Why?"

"I'm thinking about the trip to Los Angeles that you and Zeke mentioned last time. Have any decisions been made?"

"Nothing...for sure."

"Do you think Zeke will go?"

"Probably...if he does I'll be going too."

"Do you feel comfortable with that?"

Casey hesitated. "...I don't know. I know I don't want to be alone."

"But would you be alone? You have Sasha around and he certainly seems willing to go the distance to help you."

"You don't think I should go."

"You have to decide, Casey, but I want you to consider that this is a very good way to test being apart from Zeke for a little while. Do you agree that it would be a good thing to try?"

"No."

"You don't agree?"

Casey didn't care if he sounded rude. "Next question?"

His shrink sighed. "I'll give you credit for being very tenacious, Casey...All right, then, have you been to see Dr. Chakri lately?"

"I went to see her yesterday, why do you want to know?"

"To be honest, Casey, you look worn out yourself. What did Dr. Chakri think?"

He squirmed a bit, then admitted, "Dr. Chakri thinks I've been taking too many pills and not getting enough sleep. She doesn't want me to have any more Xanax."

Dr. Yves looked mildly surprised. "Really?"

"She gave me a prescription for something else...Klonopin?"

"I see," she returned, scribbling a note. "You just started taking it?"

"Last night. You can talk to her about me if you want. I signed a release."

Now Dr. Yves graduated from mildly to very surprised. "I wouldn't mind that," she said. "Just to make sure Dr. Chakri and I are not at cross-purposes."

"And discuss whether or not I should be locked up?"

She frowned. "I'm going to ask her opinion about how well you've been caring for yourself."

"I just told you that."

"Would you not agree that you tend to minimize how sick or injured you might feel? And you just told me that you've had periods of disorientation when you run away from your home and you're not sure what you're doing. I'm concerned that if this continues, you could potentially get hurt."

She and Zeke were so alike sometimes, using their frigging reason on him. He retorted, "If I hadn't been sick before, it wouldn't be an issue. I'd be like any other fucked up human being and doctors wouldn't always be watching me and trying to tell me what I need."

"Maybe other people need intervention too but I can't help them because I don't know about them. I'm just lucky enough to be in a position to help you — but if you don't want me to talk to Dr. Chakri, I won't."

"Whatever," he muttered. "It'll be a relief anyway."

"What do you mean?"

"That I'd like for all this to be over."

"Statements like that don't exactly reassure me, Casey. What do you mean when you say you want it to be over?"

"Nothing...just, I'm tired of it."

"Is there more that you haven't told me?"

He stared. "Like what?"

"I'm referring to what happened when Zeke was here a couple of weeks ago. Obviously it couldn't have been aliens since you've made it very clear that Zeke doesn't want to talk about aliens. There was something that Zeke did want to tell me, that you were worried about him telling me."

"There's nothing."

"So it isn't possible that you're telling me this alien story now to keep me from asking about the other stuff?"

He muttered under his breath. "You think you're so fucking smart."

"What's that?"

"I said, you're always trying to trick me."

"I'm not trying to trick you, Casey. I just want us to have honest conversations."

"Can I go now?"

"Yes, our time is almost up, I'll show you out — " She watched him almost leap up and caught him with a question. "Are you coming back?"

"I guess I have to or you'll sic the paramedics on me."

"So that's a yes."

"Yes, fucking yes!"

"Monday, regular time?"

"Yes!"

"When are you going home for Christmas?"

"Don't know yet. My mother wants me to come home earlier since I don't have school or anything."

"Casey? It's okay to be angry at me, I'll still care about you."

He felt an explosion of tears rising. He said quickly, "I've got to go."

As he went out the door he heard from behind him, "You did well today, Casey."

It seemed that this time she was following him out. He hurried to stay ahead of her, almost forgetting that Sasha was waiting for him in the reception area. In a split second he noticed his friend sitting exactly where he had left him and rushed over, sensing that Dr. Yves was not far behind him. Sasha barely had time to look up from his issue of Cosmo before Casey stopped hard in front of him.

"Everything okay?" Sasha asked. His eyes travelled up behind Casey, acknowledging Dr. Yves. He stood up, loping an arm around Casey's shoulders as Casey turned to keep her in his line of sight.

"It's fine," she said briefly. She addressed her receptionist: "Casey has an appointment next Monday, Susan."

"Excellent," Susan said, with a toothy smile like she was on an American Express commercial. She turned her attention to her computer.

Dr. Yves said, "Have a good weekend, Casey."

Casey mumbled, "Yeah...th-th-thanks." He tugged on Sasha, telling him he wanted to leave.

He made it as far of the front steps of the building before he started to shake so hard that he had to sit down right there and just wait for his body to stop convulsing. A voice began to croon in the background but it didn't really help. He put his hands over his face. If he had opened his mouth the only thing that would have come out would have been the silent, airless gasping of a creature made helpless by terror, unable to do anything but cringe and wait.

 

There was none of the elation Zeke had expected as he delivered his last paper of the term to the sociology office, not even a sense of accomplishment. There was only a delayed intent to go home and collapse — but not until after he attended his final class of the term. He figured it must be some sort of point of pride to go to the bitter end now, even if he almost nodded off trying to listen to the review of the philosophical schools; Winona had to nudge him several times. He had to wonder why she wasn't a zombie too... Probably it was because she had exercised some time management skills. And she didn't have a Casey in her life, she just had a room-mate that she avoided by going to the library or hanging out with Zeke. Okay, that wasn't really fair. She also had a difficult family life — but that was in another city, too.

Since no one can hear me talking to myself, let's just say it, Zeke mused. In my opinion, I am the most hard-done-by person in this room...in this entire city, in fact. It felt good to think it, like sharing nasty gossip behind someone's back even while knowing it was probably not true. It provided for a nice wallow.

There was movement around him. The class, and the term, had ended. Zeke forced himself to converse briefly with Winona. "Okay, I'm going home to sleep."

"No coffee?"

"No...I can't taste anything anyway." He got wearily to his feet. He felt somewhat more emancipated now, but that might have been because he wasn't carrying fifty pounds of books. He'd already decided to return the last of the library books on Monday. "Have a good week — " he started and broke off, realizing he wouldn't see her until the exam.

"Uh, Zeke? I decided to come to your thing."

"My thing?"

"You know...the party."

"Oh." He'd actually forgotten about the party completely, and certainly forgotten that he'd invited her.

Suddenly he was enveloped by a fantasy where she was no longer in his life. Next term they could very likely have no classes together; she was majoring in political studies after all and he was in philosophy and it was just chance that they ended up sharing two courses this term. The absence of her would reduce the tension in his life by half at the very least — probably more than half. And giving up his one school friend for Casey did not mean that he was overly obsessed or co-dependent. He already knew that Winona was going to turn out to be one of those friends who came without fanfare into his life and just as easily drifted out. She happened to be someone he could give up and if that made Casey happy, then he was happy to do it.

"Is it okay?" Winona asked, and he considered giving her the real answer to that question instead of the polite answer. But that would come off as pretty rude and illogical since he had pressed the invitation upon her in the first place.

"Yeah, I told Casey and he was fine with it." He took up his backpack. "So I'll see you Sunday night."

"What time?"

He didn't actually know, so he picked a time that sounded reasonable without being too early. "Uh...anytime after eight."

"Right...now go home and crash, you sicko."

As Zeke walked to the bus stop, he suddenly recalled that Casey should be through his session with Yves and nerves began to eat his stomach. He pulled out his cell phone and tried phoning their home number. He got no answer, so he tried Casey's cell. Again, nothing. He waited a few minutes, until he was almost at his stop, then tried Casey's cell again. Nothing.

He managed to hold himself to a walk, although the walk became faster and faster as he got closer to home. So fast that he almost missed Casey standing in Wellth, talking to Stokely. He appeared quite intact and unharmed.

Zeke made a sharp angle and went in. "Hey."

Maybe it was just the noise of the bells on the door that startled Casey, but he went completely white when he saw Zeke. "H-Hi," he stuttered.

"Zeke," Stokely said, her manner a little cool. He had talked to her and requested forgiveness for his all-around rudeness at Thanksgiving dinner — and she had given it, but they were still in a state of essential disagreement over Charly and her intentions. For now they seemed to have consensus that they would avoid the topic.

"Hi, Stokes," he answered, ignoring the slight tension. Shifting his gaze to Casey, he said, "I phoned you."

"S-sorry."

"Sorry for what? Did you hear it ring? Why didn't you answer?"

"Zeke, shut up," Stokely said, rolling her eyes. "He was talking to me and I told him I thought it was rude to stop just so he could answer the phone. You know...rude? That thing when you're not giving people the politeness they deserve as human beings?"

Meanwhile, Casey had begun to gaze intently at the floor.

"I worry is all," Zeke said, hoping to mollify them both. "I guess I overdo it sometimes...call me sick in the head."

Stokely said, "You're sick all right...You sound all snotty."

"Thanks."

"Is the party still on, do you think?"

In Zeke's interpretation of the question, she was asking him if they were still pals, and he was quick to answer in the affirmative. He couldn't afford to lose any friends — and he would actually miss her if she went. "I think so," he said. "I just need a day to recover. Come on, Case..."

"So we'll do that thing tomorrow, Case," Stokes said as Casey compliantly began to follow Zeke out.

"Um...yeah," Casey answered, without enthusiasm.

"What thing?" Zeke wanted to know.

Stokely said, far too cheerily, "Oh, we just want to get a few things to decorate for the party."

Zeke stopped walking and turned. "Absolutely no Pin-the-Tail-On-The- Donkey."

"Of course not," Stokely returned, looking innocent.

Zeke scowled a warning at her, but didn't have energy for any more repartee. He hated being sick; he resented having to listen to his body's mutinous demands. At the sports store there had been times when his staff were dropping like flies all around him and he would never develop any symptoms. This could only be stress-related — and, of course, the immune system always functioned better in a body that had more than ten hours sleep over five days.

Upstairs, Zeke just dropped all his belongings in the hallway, emitting an enormous sigh. He wanted his bed now.

Someone was creeping around behind him; Casey, picking up his things. When Zeke turned it must have startled Casey badly. He jumped like a mouse caught by a sudden flood of light.

Zeke said, "What the hell is it, Case?"

"Just — you know — how S-Sasha is."

"No, I mean...why so jumpy?" The moment he said that he realized it was a ridiculous question — like Casey ever was anything but jumpy. "Fuck...don't listen to me, I'm an idiot. In fact..." He snagged an arm and pulled Casey in his direction. "I had all these ideas about the fun things I'd do when this ordeal was over but now the only thing I want to do is sleep. Do you mind?"

Casey shook his head. "No...you need it."

"What are you gonna...?"

"I dunno." Casey shrugged, never quite meeting Zeke's eyes. "Read or something. Play a game maybe."

In his current condition Zeke was too tired and miserable to push Casey for any additional information. He staggered in the direction of the bedroom, contenting himself with a brief expression of leadership: "No napping, Case."

As he stripped down in preparation for sleep he found that he was shivering. He put on thermal socks, and a sweatshirt over his thin t-shirt. Then he tumbled into the bed.

A mattress and sheets had never had so much feel-good power before — but despite his exhaustion, he couldn't find the quality sleep he'd been looking forward to. Once freed from his mind's demands for performance and possessed of the requisite time to lay around, his body decided to show him that he was a lot sicker than he had allowed himself to feel. He lay tossing and spinning for two hours or more, half-sleeping, shaking with that chill that made him hate the thought of getting up. His whole body was aching now, but the more conspicuous problem was now that he was lying down he couldn't breathe at all. The phlegm now had gravity on its side.

Eventually, he forced himself to move, motivated by the desperate desire to be unconscious, but for that to happen he had to get up and go find some cold medicine. He coaxed himself to walk on trembling legs to the bathroom, shaking and clinging to the anticipation of comfort in the future...except there were no fucking meds, nothing but the bottle of Tylenol and Casey's prescriptions. The acetaminophen would help somewhat, but he really needed something to knock him out. For half a second he considered stealing a Xanax and quickly put that out of his mind.

"Zeke?"

Casey had snuck up on him again, and he was feeling too dreadful to react much. He just took in that most familiar face behind him in the mirror without comment.

"Why are you up?" Casey asked.

"Can't sleep. Need drugs."

"Oh."

"I was hoping," Zeke croaked, "for something with chlorpheniramine maleate or my favourite...pseudoephedrine hydrochloride."

Casey looked blank for a second. "You mean for colds."

"Yeah."

Without just a hint of a nervous twitch Casey offered, "I'll go and get you some."

Zeke tried to focus on something beyond the prospect of relief...like Casey volunteering to go out of the apartment for him. He said, "You don't have to...I could just put on a bunch of sweaters and do it myself."

"No, you should s-stay in. It's okay, the pharmacy's like t-two minutes away." Casey was already turning and heading back down the hallway.

Rather than returning to that cursed bed Zeke went to the living room and huddled on the couch with Casey's afghan. He watched some mindless drivel on TV for a bit, finding it soothing.

It seemed like Casey had been gone for hours when Zeke heard the door opening and closing. Moments after, Casey appeared in front of Zeke, looking rather predictably unsettled by his trip outdoors. Still, to Zeke's eyes he presented an image of reasonable good health, even with the bruise on his chin and the bluish shadows under his eyes. His nose and ears were pink and he was wearing a thick, orange scarf, one that Zeke recalled seeing knotted around Sasha's neck.

"Wh-why are you out here?" Casey asked. He pulled off his gloves and blew into his cupped hands.

Zeke shrugged. "Wanted to stare at the tube. Did you get the stuff?"

Casey nodded. "Yeah...just a sec."

He walked away, unwrapping the scarf, and there was another interminable wait. Zeke heard him puttering in the kitchen and the kettle whistle and he hoped that Casey wasn't going to try to make him drink tea. Because he didn't drink tea. Period. Not black tea, not green tea, not camomile or ginseng or any of those bits of bark and grass that Stokely was always pushing —

Casey came in finally with a steaming cup that he placed in front of Zeke, along with a glass of water and two of the Tylenol that Zeke had skipped earlier. Zeke leaned forward and sniffed. The liquid was yellow but he couldn't derive its scent. "What is this? Chicken soup?"

Casey made a face. "No, it's Theraflu. Didn't your mom ever — ? Well, anyway, my mom used to give me this when I was a kid. I guarantee it will knock you flat."

"What's in it?"

Casey just looked at him, then wordlessly went back to the kitchen and retrieved the crumpled packet, from the garbage Zeke presumed. Zeke scanned the ingredients. There were a few things he didn't recognize but clearly it was cold medicine in a liquid form. He sipped the drink, which tasted sweet and lemony — and was scalding hot.

"Hmm...not bad."

Casey nodded and went away; shortly, though, he was back with a cup of tea for himself. He sat down beside Zeke and they watched South Park together while Zeke finished the entire mug of Theraflu. The stuff worked pretty fast; Cartman was still ranting about something when Zeke noticed that his eyelids were too heavy to hold up. He slid sideways, putting his head in Casey's lap. It wasn't terribly comfortable on those bony, wiry thighs, so he squirmed and hunted for a pillow to cushion his head.

Finally, he was in the zone...he was warm, he was less achy, and he was going to be asleep any second now...even better, someone's fingers were playing lightly in his hair. "Oh, yeah..." he said. "Keep doing that."

The fingers stopped. "What?"

"I said, don't stop."

"Oh." The stroking resumed.

Zeke couldn't stand it. He made himself speak as clearly as he could given that he was near unconsciousness. "‘R...y'okay?" he slurred.

"Huh?"

"You...oh, n'ver mind, Case..." Zeke gave up. It would have to wait, but he did have to say one thing. "Y'saved my life today...you know."

"Oh...not really."

"Yes-s...saved my life, you're a lifesaver...a lemon-flavoured lifesaver."

"Christ," Casey muttered. "Go to sleep, Zeke."

Good idea, that.

It was a gorgeous, perfect sleep overlaid with the hum of drugs. Zeke could actually feel and hear them inside his head, smashing down consciousness. He drifted away knowing that endless amounts of time could and would go by and that he would still be sleeping and it was a delightful knowledge to have. He woke up just once and appreciated that he was still on the couch, by himself and that was wrong for some reason...but it was night and he was heading right back for more of that wonderful sleep.

 

Some hours, or even an eternity later, Zeke laid in bed curled up and half- conscious, pondering the possibility that it might be Saturday.

There was no certainty to be found on the question though; meanwhile there was one thing he was certain of — his head was still one, big disgusting ball of snot. It had even crusted around his nostrils while he slept. At last he rolled over onto his back, fighting to get his eyes open, then struggled to sit up, pushing through dizziness and the blood pulsing in his ears. He yanked a tissue out of the nearly empty box beside the bed.

For the next few moments his mission was to clear a breathing passage.

Unsolicited, Sasha stuck his head into the room and grinned. "The birthday boy wakes!" His expression became one of yuck at the sounds that Zeke was making. "It ain't pretty but it's alive. Say something, darling."

"Fuck you," Zeke said, hacking.

"That's my boy."

Casey slipped in under Sasha's arm, and there were glimpses of a third body right behind him, jarring Zeke for a moment until he realized that it was Stokely. "Happy birthday, Zeke," she said, finding a place in the doorway while Casey continued towards Zeke and sat cross-legged on the bed.

After a long stretch of sensory deprivation, Zeke felt compelled to help himself to a long, thorough stare at Casey. The moment he focussed that particular lens, an image imposed itself on his eyes with crystal clarity — it was Casey afraid and miserable, or more afraid and miserable than usual. However, it was not something Zeke needed or wanted to see at this moment and, whatever was going on, it had to be something that Sasha could handle because Zeke just wasn't equipped for it right now.

"How do you feel?" Sasha asked, stepping just inside the door.

"I need more tissues," Zeke said.

Sasha smirked. "You're a crabby birthday boy."

Zeke ignored him. "Do I smell something baking?"

"Oh...you mean your nose is working?"

"Just barely."

"It's your birthday cake," Sasha informed him.

"I thought Stokely was doing that."

"I am...I did," Stokely replied. "I decided to bake it here and save myself carrying it on the bus. I just took it out of the oven. Chocolate all right with you?"

"Fine."

"Casey and I are about to go out and get a few things, do you want something? Besides a box of Kleenex?"

Zeke eyed Casey again, wishing that his head wasn't still stuffed full of snot. He was also still stoned but he didn't mind that so much. "Orange juice," he said, as he was desperately thirsty as well. He lay down once again, because it seemed like the thing to do.

"We have juice — " Sasha started to say.

"No," Zeke refused. "I want orange juice, the regular kind that doesn't have a lot of oranges in it."

"It's not as good for you — "

"Well, I want it!"

"Okay, okay." From his supine position, Zeke heard Sasha comment, "Somebody's a grumpy gus." Then his and Stokely's voices receded, and it was blissfully silent in the bedroom.

After a pause, Zeke felt Casey's weight shift on the bed. "I assume it's Saturday," he said, with eyes closed.

"Yes."

"And what time is it?"

"About one."

Shit. He'd slept for sixteen hours. "You weren't kidding about that stuff. And your mom gave this to you when you were a kid?"

"Not when I was really little..."

"I'm teasing. It's good shit. I like it."

"Do you — um — do you want something to eat?"

Zeke opened his eyes to watch Casey doing the I'm nervous dance with his hands. "Not really."

"Sasha...h-he made soup."

"Oh...I guess I don't have a choice, then. What kind? Not chicken, I hope."

"Um...not sure...your dad, I mean your f-father called."

At this news, Zeke felt the need to sit up again. "What did he say?"

"That he'd...call back."

Casey's breathing was becoming laboured and Zeke felt the stir of real concern beneath the weight of medicated somnolence. "What's going on?"

"G-going...on?"

"With you, what's going on with you?"

"Nothing."

Zeke didn't feel like dignifying that with his own opinion, so he went on to the next question. "Does it have to do with my dad calling?"

"Um," Casey said, with a somewhat desperate face.

"I guess we haven't really officially talked about going to that wedding."

"I'll go."

"But do you want to go?"

"If you want me to."

Zeke was worn down by this exchange already. "Well, you can always change your mind," he said, resting his burning eyes. He was going to need more drugs. Okay, need was a slight exaggeration. Apart from helping him to sleep, they did nothing but mask his symptoms; he was very well aware of that, but it seemed like he'd done nothing but worry and negotiate Casey's various complexities for the past three months and it would be nice to take a few days off and just lie around in a stupour.

In the interim, he would give Casey something to do, to distract them both. "Do you think...would you mind bringing me some of that soup?"

The soup that Casey brought to him wasn't chicken. It was full of potatoes and carrots and meatballs — Sasha's idea of his favourite soup, Zeke supposed. His appetite wasn't up to its usual vigour but he finished the bowlful. After that, he dragged himself up and had a shower, suffering through wave after wave of chills. It was worth it though; having purged some of the sick sweat from his skin and put on fresh clothes, he felt somewhat better. Casey had departed to help Stokely carry out her mission — and while Casey going out right now when he seemed to be all nerves didn't strike Zeke as a great idea, he assumed that since it was birthday-related Casey would consider it a high priority. That was a somewhat pleasing idea.

Once Zeke had gotten cleaned up, Sasha helped him make a little nest on the couch with a magazine, the phone, and the remotes for TV, stereo and DVD. When he was comfortably settled with the afghan and a box of tissues, Sasha sat down in his usual chair, close to where Zeke was ensconced, and put his hands on his knees like he was Abraham Lincoln, wearing a very serious face.

Zeke let himself be studied for a while and then he couldn't ignore it anymore. "Okay, what?" he said wearily.

"You know, you're a suck when you're sick."

"So sue me. I don't get sick...hardly ever."

"Well...do you think you'll be recovered by tomorrow?"

"I intend to be fully recovered, yes."

Sasha chuckled, shaking his head. "Even your body must obey, is that it?"

"Something like that."

"It's not surprising, though, the way you've been pushing yourself. It was like you weren't even living here last week."

"I know...and, yes, I've been neglecting Casey."

"I doubt that," Sasha remarked.

Zeke puzzled momentarily over the comment and just let it go. "Anyway...at least it's over now. Next time I'll manage my time better."

"But it isn't over...is it?"

Zeke looked Sasha up and down. "What is this?"

"Just making chitchat."

"Bullshit."

"Okay, then I'm just saying try and pace yourself. Can't a person show concern for you without getting their head bitten off?"

Zeke rolled his eyes. "Of course. And thanks for the soup."

"You're welcome. Concentrate on getting well for tomorrow, okay?"

"Maybe we should cancel it."

"Oh, no!" Sasha laughed. "We're having this party even if you have to be carried in on a stretcher. Anyway, it's not much of a party. Just you, me, Casey, Jerry, Stan and Stokes --- "

"And Winona."

"Pardon me?"

"Winona's coming, too. Casey knows about it, I told him over a week ago."

Sasha's eyes widened. He rested his forehead in his hand; and then, peering out from under it with palpable disbelief, he said "Why the fuck did you do that?"

"It was an accident," Zeke defended himself, feeling rather pathetic about it but pathetic was about his speed right now. "She asked what I was doing for my birthday...and it was obvious she wanted to be invited..."

"So you could have ignored the hint — I mean, people ignore things all the time!"

"It just — look, she was unhappy and she's lonely and I had a hard time ignoring it. It's not like I want her here."

"Oh, right. Look, what is it with that woman, Zeke? I know it isn't what Casey thinks, but I can't figure it out."

"Am I never to have friends unless Casey gives them his stamp of approval?" Zeke burst out, a bit surprised by his own vehemence. He accepted, he understood so much and no one seemed to appreciate — "Or talk to another female person ever again?"

"So it's a control thing again."

"No...fuck, maybe it started off a bit like...I just thought she was fun to talk to at first and...it's just not so easy."

"Okay," Sasha said, noticeably fuming. "But my advice to you is keep her and Casey at least ten feet apart tomorrow. Or you call her and uninvite her."

"I'd rather not do that."

"In my experience you've never had a problem being brutally to the point, Zeke."

"I know, but..." Zeke resented being required to think consistently and logically right now, especially when he knew that the chemicals were making him just a little bit less careful than usual. He blurted, "I'd like her to go about her life thinking I'm a nice guy and not a prick, okay? It's just a small stupid thing that happens to mean something to me."

After a moment of being visibly taken aback, Sasha reached over and put a hand on Zeke's knee. "You are a nice guy," he said. "Well, most of the time...and I like you, Zeke. I've always liked you. And it isn't fair to expect you to always choose Casey's preferences over your own, I realize that, I just...I'm worried about her and Casey being in the same block, never mind this apartment."

"They'll just politely ignore each other," Zeke declared. "And if it'll make you feel any better...I think it'll be the last time Casey has to interact with her."

Sasha nodded, although not with great confidence. "Okay. I'm heading out soon, do you want anything?"

"I'd like another shot of that lemon drink."

"You sure? It packed a whallop on you."

"Yes, I want to get this thing out of my system and to do that I need to sleep."

Sasha headed off to the kitchen. Zeke laid back and closed his eyes. He was a nice guy, wasn't he? Sure, he tried, but too many people knew him from before, from that time when he didn't care if he was nice or not. He didn't know why or when he had started caring about it. It was a strange thing to care about. Being nice. Nice. It was a stupid sounding word — a stupid word, come to think of it —

The phone rang and Zeke picked it up with a hunch about who it was.

"Hello...Zeke?"

"Yes...hi, Jacob."

"I...called to wish you a happy birthday."

"Thank you."

"Casey told me you're sick, though. Are you feeling any better today?"

"A bit."

"Oh." An awkward silence, then: "You're having a party for your birthday, right?"

"Tomorrow. Just a small one."

"That's nice."

Zeke hoped that someone would get to the point. He was way behind schedule on his planned lounging in front of the TV.

"Zeke, I was wondering...have you decided about coming to the wedding?"

"Yes. I'm coming, and so is Casey."

Jacob didn't miss a beat. "That's great. I'll pay for everything, of course. The wedding itself is on New Year's Eve but I thought you might want to come a few days early...I remember Casey wanted to do a little bit of sightseeing."

"Yes," Zeke said, reluctantly, not saying that what Casey wanted to do and what he was actually going to do when the moment arrived were two different things.

"So what day did you want to come?"

"I don't know, maybe the 29th or 30th."

"But you'll need to get fitted for your suit..."

"Oh, I...I don't think so."

"Sorry?"

"I mean...I just don't feel comfortable with...the standing up part."

A long, long pause. Zeke told himself that there was absolutely no logical reason to feel guilty.

"I see."

Zeke gripped the phone hard and held to his silence.

"So...have you, er...been using the Playstation I got you?"

Sasha walked into the room, his eyes questioning. Getting no real response from Zeke other than a shrug, he placed a hot mug of liquid on the table in front of Zeke then walked away, probably to get dressed for work. Zeke answered, "Yeah, except, you know...the last few weeks I was up to my ears in writing."

"Of course." Jacob paused. "I'm glad you're working so hard. Casey's a good influence, huh?"

"Yeah," Zeke said sourly, feeling not quite as remorseful as a moment ago.

"All right, I'll look into flights for the 29th, then. We don't want to leave it too late, it's a really busy time. And when would you return?"

"I guess on the second or third."

"There's a family dinner on the third...Mel's parents are inviting everyone over, it's one of those post-wedding traditions..."

"All right, the fourth, then." Zeke had a sudden, horrible thought. "You didn't invite Rachel, did you?"

Jacob sounded amused. "No...but I was thinking about hiring security just in case she decided to crash."

The visuals that this inspired were hilarious.

"My, you do sound quite froggy," said his father after Zeke had finished laughing.

"Yeah."

"Do you not talk to your mother at all?"

"Not since I moved. I don't think she has my phone number and I intend to keep it that way."

"I understand," Jacob said wryly.

Zeke almost didn't say what he said next. "Why do you...?"

"Why do I talk to her?"

"Yeah."

"Just habit I guess."

Zeke didn't feel qualified to comment on that.

"I've known her for over thirty years," Jacob added. "I guess I'm just...used to her."

"Hmm."

"Well, I guess I'll let you go."

"Okay...hey, um...Jacob?"

"Yes?"

"I suppose I could...do the...the standing up at the wedding thing."

"Really? Thank you, Zeke. That means a lot to me."

"It's okay...but is there some kind of uniform I have to wear?"

"No, just a tux, but with a certain colour tie and cummerbund that Mel picked out to match her daughter's dress."

"It's not pink, is it?"

"No," Jacob replied, chuckling. "I think it's a kind of deep blue...perfectly masculine, never fear. If you find a good men's clothing shop there in Seattle you can get fitted there and we can make arrangements about the accessories."

"All right," Zeke sighed. "When do I need to do this? I'm going to Herrington for Christmas but I do have to stay here until the 18th."

"May I suggest next week?"

"Don't worry...I'll get it done."

"Good. Thank you."

"No problem."

"Take care of yourself, Zeke...and have a good time tomorrow."

"I'll try."

Putting down the phone, Zeke slowly sipped his lemon drink while it cooled to a non-scalding temperature. He had dim, unfocussed thoughts about Casey coming to Los Angeles with him...it was potentially scary and potentially exciting...or very scary and very exciting. He and Casey with a hotel room all to themselves, perhaps visiting some of the Hollywood sights...and showing off Casey to a bunch of L.A. types...yeah, it could be good...maybe Casey needed a new suit as well...

Soon, Zeke was finding it tough to think about anything. His head filled up with a lovely, cottony hum and he found himself staring at some cooking show that had become absolutely enthralling. He could have watched it all day, as long as he could just exist in this complete state of sublime stupefaction.

He didn't hear when Casey was back; he didn't even know Casey was in the apartment until he brought Zeke his juice. After that, Casey disappeared to amuse himself elsewhere, Zeke didn't know and didn't care to ask. A pile of snotty tissues grew beside him, some spilling over onto the floor, while he just stared and stared until his lids grew heavy. He gave himself permission to sleep again.

He woke up to Casey and some more soup. He ate it despite having little interest in food, and drank the rest of the carton of juice. He noticed that it was night once again, and again Casey cuddled up with him, putting on some movie on TV that Zeke never did follow because he kept nodding off.

The next time he woke up, he was alone in the living room. "Case?" he called, his voice scratchy. All the lights were on and it seemed far too bright. His bladder, he also noticed, was uncomfortably full.

There was no answer, but then he hadn't been very loud. Casey was probably in the bathroom or kitchen, he thought fuzzily, without turning his mind to the question beyond that. He decided to put himself to bed, making a pit stop in the bathroom along the way. He didn't run into Casey at all en route but he didn't let it concern him.

Much later he woke again, this time in darkness. He was in bed, staring directly at the red numbers on his clock. It was early morning and Casey was lying pressed up against his back, his face nuzzling a space in Zeke's sweat-shirt right between his shoulder blades. Zeke's head was muzzy and his throat as dry as parchment, but he could tell immediately that he had broken the back of this virus. He was too warm, but he was not feverish. He had the full use of one half of his sinus passages which was sufficient for breathing.

He twisted about and sat up, yanking off the sweatshirt, then laid down again facing Casey. He discovered that Casey's eyes were open.

They didn't say a word, just gazing back at each other for a while — full, solid minutes of just looking and Zeke apprehended that while he wasn't sick anymore, he was still very much drugged. He put a hand out and slowly traced Casey's features; touching Casey was like moving through honey right now. He could have watched himself do it all night — just like earlier watching the TV, except in this instance his cock was hard enough to hammer nails.

Maybe it went on for hours, he didn't know, time had gone strange on him. He just brushed the lines under his fingers, over and over...down the bridge of the nose, across the cheekbone and back, and across, and back, and down with his thumb. At some point he would choose another part of the canvas, connecting other points and lines, and then others, continuing the slow work of sketching them until Casey suddenly caught his wrist for a second — gripped hard but let go immediately, like a cat who had just delivered a warning swat: I don't want to hurt you but I will if you don't stop pushing me.

Getting the message, Zeke ceased his explorations. He stilled, then moved his hand tentatively to tug on Casey's sleeve. Without conversation, they performed an intricate dance to remove Casey's sweater. Casey pushed off his boxers, and helped Zeke with his. In Zeke's mind everything was still happening slowly, so very slowly but Zeke was nevertheless burning with a languorous, distant heat.

He sought for the lube and discovered that there was not very much left. They'd gone through so much of the stuff this week and Zeke hadn't thought to buy some more in his travels. Nor had he bought condoms, but he didn't give a damn about that. He was probably taking a greater risk every time he smoked a cigarette and he couldn't stand the condom business anymore, just like he couldn't contemplate quitting smoking. These were risks that he was living with and what did it matter when there was a constant risk of all sorts of dire things happening, just constant disorder...so many little parts of his life hanging out now. Nothing was tidy, everything was getting away from him but not entirely, just enough that he couldn't keep track of all the loose ends that needed trimming. He wasn't him anymore.

"What?" Casey whispered.

"No lube."

"Some."

"Not enough..."

"‘s okay."

"Sure?" And if anyone would be sure, it was Casey, Casey was the experienced one here who knew what he could take and Zeke needed to slake that heat that was burning him alive, the smoulder that was crawling under his skin and in his brain saying be sure...please be sure...

Casey nodded.

Zeke squeezed out all of what was left in the tube to slick the fingers on his one hand while Casey shifted to make himself more accessible, parting his legs and putting his feet flat, bending at the knee. Zeke put his hand down, circling the tiny opening, rubbing and stroking it, gratified to hear Casey making tiny, involuntary sounds. He pushed in with two fingers; Casey made another noise, his body stiffening and Zeke thought belatedly about Sasha on the other side of the wall. He was a sound sleeper, but certainly not impervious to any and all outbursts.

Leaning in for a kiss, Zeke whispered, "Shh. Remember Sasha."

He stroked the spot inside Casey that made him rise up off the bed and attempt to cry out; Zeke took the sound into himself. And another sound, more urgent this time. He removed his hand and moved closer, in between Casey's legs. Dipping down for one more breath of a kiss, he savoured that moment — with Casey's arms and legs not quite clasping him, not quite surrounding him and Casey answering a gentle whisper of a kiss with equal delicacy. When Casey's mouth stopped moving altogether, Zeke tilted his head back after a few seconds and looked down at him. He saw eyes lost in darkness, laid bare and concealed all at once. Zeke had to know what was there, to finally see it and possess it because then he might actually understand something, he might have one thing that was not getting away from him.

Slowly he put his cock into Casey's body, watching Casey's eyes for a sign that he should halt his advance. Casey's eyebrows flexed, shaping something ambiguous. He blinked several times, gnawing on his lip. There wasn't a sound. Zeke hovered, gripping his lover's bent legs just above the knees and waiting for some signal.

Casey made a questing motion with his hips. Zeke noticed that he and Casey were both shaking. He knew he was not quite clear-headed, he could almost see trailers in front of his eyes and he heard a buzzing in his ears and he could have just lain down right here and gone to sleep like this if it weren't for the ache, the need...

He set about possessing Casey, intent upon taking those eyes and that body with every stroke. He fucked slowly, in and out while Casey was in perfect syncopation with him, working his body to welcome Zeke's full momentum and then release him only to be ready for the next, measured rush forward. For an eternity Zeke glided, transfixed by the eyes beneath him...and he was finally himself, he was the man, he was opening up his perfect partner in one absolute act...he was happy and he was perfect.

The mouth beneath him strained, opened. At first there was nothing, and then a stream of soft, broken syllables that Zeke didn't have any way to stop and didn't really want to: "...ugh...you...you you you...oh...love...love you, love you..." A hitched breath. "Ungh!" And Zeke felt his lover's come, a heat spreading around his belly. It was that sensation that tipped Zeke over the edge.

Shortly, he became conscious of the fact that he was panting, sweating, and his arms were trembling so hard he knew he would crush Casey if he didn't move. He pushed back on his knees, removing his softening penis from Casey's body and releasing his legs, then collapsed beside him.

He would have expected to have something to say, but as he lay there catching his breath there was really nothing much in his head. Casey wormed in closer to him, putting his face right up against Zeke's skin, and Zeke absently put his arms around him, drawing up the thoroughly bedraggled sheets and comforter to cover them both completely.

Now he felt hot tears leaking down his front. Lacking any meaningful thoughts about that, he stroked Casey's hair and back until he sensed from Casey's breathing that he had fallen asleep, and so he went along for the ride.

 

Zeke's eyes had been drugged shut for the second night in a row. Once he was sure that those eyes would not be opening any time soon, Casey rose to his feet, found his coat and shoes and snuck out of the apartment.

He had done the same thing the night before, sitting on the couch with Zeke's head in his lap, waiting until he was sure that Zeke was completely out of it and then sneaking across the street to Zorba's. He wasn't sure why he needed to talk to Thomas, but it was totally commonplace by now to have no idea of what he was doing or why. Blab everything to the shrink, fetch and carry for Zeke bringing him juice and soup and tissues and drugs, chat with Stokely...hunker down shaking on the bathroom floor for an hour here and there, spend more time with a strange man in a coffee shop...it was all the exact same kind of surreal.

Yesterday Thomas hadn't been around but tonight he was, sitting at a table with an older woman. He waved to Casey when he came in. Casey went up and ordered a chai; he stood off to the side waiting, keeping an eye on the people around him, tapping his foot nervously. There was quite a babble of conversation in Zorba's, created by far more people than he had ever seen there. Some bearded guy with long hair and John Lennon glasses was playing a guitar on a tiny stage in the corner that Casey had never really noticed before.

A strange thing: One of the young women servers took Casey's order and made his chai, but Rob the Coffee guy took it from her when she was finished and presented it to Casey, leaning over the counter and gesturing with one hand for Casey to meet him halfway. Casey just looked blankly at him, and Rob scowled impatiently. He gestured again, this time to the side of the service counter. The motion was much more defined and sharp, a slash through the air in front of Casey's face.

"I just want to ask you something," Rob said. "Come over here...Jana, I'll just be a sec."

Jana's eyes roamed over Casey and looked disinterested. "You bet," she tossed back.

It had the feel of official barista business although Casey couldn't imagine what it might have to do with him. He slipped through the clot of people surrounding him and joined Rob off to the side, plotting an exit route just in case.

"You left your chai on the counter," Rob noted. When Casey said nothing, he rolled his eyes and said, "You talk to Thomas, don't you?"

There was a twist to that ungenerous mouth; it was nothing if not a smarmy, half-grin.

"The guy in the gold suit?" Rob prompted.

Casey involuntarily glanced in Thomas' direction, and saw him still engrossed in whatever conversation he was having with the woman at his table.

"Yeah, that one. Look, we've had a few complaints."

"What d-did he do?"

"I don't have anything against the guy, but he hangs around here constantly peddling these seminars of his. And I remembered seeing you talking to him and I just wanted to ask you to let me or the management know if he gives you any trouble."

"H-he doesn't give m-me trouble."

"Okay." Rob sounded like he had discharged his professional obligation and was washing his hands of the matter. "But you should know that he may not be allowed in here after today."

"But — why?"

"I told you...he's disturbing the customers."

"S-so ask him to...to stop."

"We have. Several times."

"Oh," Casey said, for lack of any real comeback.

He started to wade his way back to the cash register to pay for his chai but Rob told him to "forget it" and fetched it for him, bringing it to him from around the back of the counter and then turning his back on Casey in an obvious dismissal. Casey surveyed the coffee shop in dismay, clutching the hot beverage with both hands. There wasn't a single free table.

He was going to give up and run home when Thomas waved to Casey again. "Mr. Casey!" he very nearly shouted, drawing the attention of most people in the room. Casey cringed, and began to make his way over.

It turned out there was an extra chair at Thomas' table. Casey planted himself in it, not failing to observe the tense, uncomfortable expression of the woman who was sitting there with Thomas, and now Casey.

"Hello, treasure...this is my friend, Cheryl."

"Sharon," the woman muttered.

Thomas didn't appear to hear her.

"Hi," Casey said.

Thomas had begun doing what, presumably, he had been doing just moments ago — talking loudly and at length about his business, and how wonderful it was and how many people had shown interest today. Even though it wasn't entirely relevant to the sales pitch, if that was his intention, he also talked about the book that he had begun composing in his head since he didn't have time to actually sit down at a keyboard — but it was okay because it was all in his head. Casey stuck to his chai and observed that Thomas' clothing was looking increasingly rumpled, and there was an edge about him too, something that was out of control and even a little angry. Casey had never felt any physical threat from him and he didn't think he should now — but there were several occasions when Thomas slammed his hand down on the table while he was talking, startling the woman he was talking to rather badly.

After the fourth or five such occasion, Sharon rose, interrupting in mid- sentence. "I have to go," she said curtly.

"No, you don't!"

It was probably intended as an expression of enthusiasm, but it came out with just a little too much, verging on menace; Sharon looked more than a little apprehensive. "Yes, I do," she snapped, and quickly walked away.

Thomas stared after her, then shrugged. "Oh, well, you win some, you lose some, right?" He grinned, then reaching across the table and lifted Casey's empty cup. "All gone...would you like another one?"

"No...thanks." Casey's mind wandered back to the apartment...where Zeke might have wakened and realized that he was gone.

"Not my treasure."

"Huh?"

"It's Zeke's treasure, isn't it. What do you want, Zeke's treasure?"

Zeke might even discover what he was up to. It was unlikely, highly improbable but if Zeke found him missing and came out looking for him...Casey hurriedly put together a sentence. "I told my shrink — "

"Told your shrink?" Thomas broke in, trying to finish it for him. "Told your shrink...you mean about your ‘them' or whatever it was." The words were quick and dismissive. "Well, it's like I said, treasure, some things have to be talked about. Now did I tell you about that lady, Cheryl? I can't remember. She's quite a mass of contradictions...obviously unresolved Oedipal crisis but we won't go there."

Notwithstanding the general buzz surrounding them, his voice carried throughout the coffee shop; several people nearby craned to look in their direction. "Turn down the volume," Casey whispered.

"What? Why's that?"

"You're too loud."

"Oh, I see, treasure...that's a good name for you, isn't it? Treasure." Thomas smiled, and his smile was something that he did have in common with his former self. His eyes and his teeth almost sparkled. He also exuded a frenetic sex appeal that hadn't been evident before despite his overall attractiveness — and there was no question that he intended for Casey to notice. "You are a treasure...so little, I could just hold you in the palm of my hand. I think you should come with me some time when I go to Portland, you could help me market my business, does that sound like a good idea?"

Casey shook his head. "You're not serious."

"Of course I'm serious, treasure."

"I can't go to Portland."

"Can't, can't, can't...why not?"

Thomas reached for Casey's hand which was clutching at the edge of the table. Casey pulled it back.

"Now what?" Thomas snapped. "What's wrong with you?"

"I think...call me Mr. Casey, okay?"

Raising sarcastic eyebrows, Thomas said, "Very well. You know, I thought we were a lot more comfortable with each other than this. We're friends, aren't we?"

"Yes," Casey said slowly.

"Well, then, why do you keep looking and staring at me with those bambi eyes, Mr. Casey?"

"T-Thomas...do you...um...you remember what happened?"

"Happened?"

"In your car."

Thomas began to smile again, this time with more than a hint of slyness. "Of course, I remember... but you know, I was thinking, I may have been a bit hasty hasty hasty." Both his hands began drumming on the table top, repeatedly and rapidly ...ratta-tat-tat...ratta-tatta-tat...ratta-tat...ratta-tat...ratta-ratta-ratta-ratta...

"Why do you sleep in your car?" Casey blurted.

There was a glimmer of something awful and sad, something caught, and then Thomas said gaily, "Sleep in my car? You're so funny and cute and insane. I don't sleep in my car. I have a house an hour out of the city and sometimes I can't be bothered to drive back there so I get a hotel room. The Hilton, downtown Seattle, that's where I stay. Of course I realize I look pretty unkempt, but you know, I put the suit out to have it pressed and they didn't do it so naturally somebody there is not getting a tip — "

"Thomas."

The man got quiet for a second, then looked up at Casey. "So what if we don't follow the rules, Mr. Casey? We're very different sort of people you and I. You know how it is."

His warmth had never really gone away, Casey realized then, but it was now a desperate, haphazard thing. Thomas was so completely other than the man in the car last week that Casey wondered if he had murdered him with his mortifying come-on. He looked into his empty cup and whispered, "Thomas...I'm sorry...f-for what I did."

"What do you mean? You didn't do anything, treasure." Thomas's long arm spanned the table easily; he started patting Casey's hand. "You can't help being the way you are anymore than I can. Don't fret your head about it, it's nothing." The patting metamorphosed into a firm grip. Casey lifted his head and saw Thomas wearing a grin that was rampant with invitation. "Of course I will keep it a secret...but any time that you want to renew your offer."

"I can't."

Thomas removed his hand, the invitation dissolving. "Because of your Zeke. Yes, I understand, and I think he's lucky."

"I don't know about that..."

"He is lucky and don't you dare, Mr. Treasure. None of that with me." The tone was distracted; Thomas was staring off in the distance even as he spoke. "You see that man behind the counter, that skinny little twit? He's got it in for me."

"Th-they're concerned — "

"The only thing they're concerned about is their bottom line. They think I'm a problem but I'm not." Thomas smacked the table again. "I'm not!"

Casey forced himself to remain in his chair, but his mind went involuntarily to Zeke, alone and sick at the apartment. The image was becoming more appealing by the second...followed closely by a little white pill...but no, he wasn't allowed to have it. He swallowed hard, grabbing onto the table, and said, "I...I've got to go."

Thomas eyed him knowingly. "Just know this, Mr. Casey...I would never hurt you. I told you that, didn't I, that I would never hurt you I told you and I meant it. I don't damage pretty things, it's not what I do, ever...ever ever."

"I know."

Casey started to rise. Thomas grabbed his arm, and it hurt. "Thomas — " he pleaded, twisting to get free. Thomas loosened his grip — then let go.

"Sorry, Mr. Treasure...I just wanted to ask if you knew, if you made up your mind about me...am I one of ‘them'?"

Casey shook his head. "I don't...I don't know."

"What did your shrink say?"

"She didn't believe me about them."

Thomas laughed hard at that. "Of course she didn't. She's the one you have to watch, her kind...not mine...my kind is harmless. You have to be careful what you tell her kind."

"But you said..."

"What did I say?" Thomas demanded.

"You said it had to be talked about."

There was a quiet, a moment of calm in the swirl of words and ideas in those dark eyes. "Did I? Yes, I remember...good for you, Mr. Casey. Really good for you."

Casey didn't know what was going on with this man, but he wasn't really coming off like a sane or non-alien person. He faltered, "I...wanted to tell you that...that it's...I don't know who you are but I appreciated you trying to help me...and I'm sorry."

"Oh," Thomas said, and looked both exhausted and sorrowful. "I didn't know that helping was what I was doing...but all right." He offered his hand. "Take care of yourself, treasure."

Casey wished there was something he could offer to make him smile again because he had the feeling this was all his fault somehow — yet uppermost in his mind now was the need to get home. Casey took Thomas' hand with all due solemnity. "Thank you, Thomas," he said.

"Will I see you again?"

Casey considered that.

"I don't know," he said.

When he got back to the apartment he found that Zeke had already gone to bed even though it was only ten-thirty. He must have noticed that Casey was not there, Casey thought, ready to start hyperventilating...but then there was really no reason for Zeke to wonder. Casey could just tell him that he had gone out for a chai, which was the truth. Of course it would sound ridiculous because Casey never just went anywhere but at least it was somewhat plausible.

He joined Zeke in the bed, snugging up behind Zeke as close as he could get. His heart was pounding at first, but even after he calmed down he felt quite sure that he wasn't going to have much success falling asleep.

But the next thing he was aware of was the middle of the night and those eyes that had been blinded by sickness and drugs were open and clear. Watching him, staring right down into him, knowing, saying I know what you've been up to, Casey, I know what you've done but it's okay because you belong to me, lie back and I'll show you...and don't concern yourself with limits. You don't have any need for those.

And his lover's eyes are all he can see. They compass his entire realm of vision, they are a universe of gold-brown all around him — they, and the hard heat spearing his body. They tell him things, and without making those stupid, mundane speech sounds...there'll never be anyone like you...loveyouhateyouownyoufuckyoufillyou...On occasion there will be a sound, something will float up and break free from his lover's open, panting mouth...it's usually Casey, but it's just a faint whisp of breath because it is so important to be silent, to have no cries, not even a creaking of springs right now.

He is being fucked in slow motion in the middle of the night. He knows he is being tested. They are both being tested. The standard is perfection at all times because that is Zeke's way and that's okay because he can stay this way forever. Well, he'll have to, he can't feel his legs anymore as he is folded up underneath the larger body and numb from lack of proper circulation and his lover's hands holding him like two iron bands. He has long since stopped feeling the pain. There is a flimsy bit of material soaked through with sweat that's glued between their skin, the rest of what they were wearing is somewhere inside the bed so there is nothing else between them but those eyes and his own eyes speaking back... loveyouloveyouloveyouyoursallyourstakemeallyoursogodfuckmeneverstop...

His mouth was crushed against something...a man's hard, sweaty pectoral, and there was a hand cradling the back of his head. He realized that he was sobbing — because it was so perfect and now he was cold and vile through and through and nothing could really assuage the fact that it was probably the last time.

He kept his own eyes closed; he wrestled the terror down, giving all the strength he had left to not thinking about anything but the information coded to his senses...the feel, taste and smell of Zeke, the reality of that body holding him, until exhaustion overtook all of it and he miraculously lost consciousness.

Then it was daylight and Casey was alone, the sheets tugged up under his chin. He could still smell his lover but he couldn't see or feel him. He couldn't remember what to call out, which name...He was alone, horrifically disconnected and aching all over. Without thought he pushed himself upright — and he wailed.

He didn't know what form the sound took, what word, but his lover — Zeke, it was — flung himself into the room a second later. He was naked to the waist, wearing pajama pants and a face half-covered in shaving cream. "Case?!"

And a moment later Sasha was barging through the door too. "Kitten, what's wrong?"

There they were, Zeke flawlessly male and half-shaved, holding a razor. He seemed completely recovered from his cold. Meanwhile Sasha's hands were covered in raw, pink hamburger meat. They both wore expressions that were just slightly shy of exaggerated, slapstick horror.

The urge to giggle took hold of Casey and he just let the laugh escape even though he didn't really feel all that mirthful. He supposed that was rather obvious how totally non-mirthful he was and that made him laugh harder as a chill, sick sensation spread through his body. He was completely gummed up down below, and there was a pain that suddenly had him in dread of movement.

"For god's sake, what?" Sasha pleaded. "What, kitten?"

Seeing the looks of panic on their faces, Casey managed to clamp down on the hysteria and say almost calmly, "S-Sorry."

"Why did you scream?" Sasha asked, his eyes round. Those same eyes were scanning him again, all over his body.

"I didn't scream," Casey said, yanking the sheet up as high as he could get it.

"You made a sound that scared us to death," Zeke said. "I think that qualifies as a scream."

"Oh...I think I was d-dreaming..." He tried moving. It didn't go well and when he glanced up, he saw that Sasha hadn't missed it. He attempted to be casual, asking, "Is there any hot water?"

"Should be," Zeke answered, studying him like he was some mutant species.

Neither of them had taken the hint that he was interested in some privacy. They remained exactly where they were, as though trying to work out some conundrum that had been placed before them. Zeke took a single step forward and then apparently remembered the shaving cream on his face, or perhaps he just hesitated. He paused, while Sasha continued to linger in the doorway.

Something broke in Casey's head and began to rattle and so he danced to it. He purred, "So you wanna come here and get some cream on me, lover?

It worked just as intended; Sasha scowled and backed out, saying, "When you're ready, kitten, I could use some help."

Zeke remained for a little longer, staring wordlessly at Casey. Then he said, "I've gotta finish shaving."

He was gone an instant later, leaving Casey to try his feet, while muffling any and all noises of discomfort. The pain in his ass was definitively beyond "a little sore" and he had to force himself to push back the sheets and look between his legs. By some miracle, there was no blood. He felt raw inside, though; it hurt every time he moved. Plus, as Casey viewed his naked body he found on his thighs, just above his knees, two brand-new, almost-perfect sets of fingerprint-sized bruises.

Casey knew better than to let any of it be seen. He crept out of bed and pulled on the nearest pair of sweat pants before shuffling to the bathroom.

Zeke was shaving, but quickly, like he needed to have it finished and move on to something else. He noted Casey in the mirror and said, "You okay?"

Okay was far too uncomplicated a word for what Casey was at the moment.

"Case...answer me, please."

Casey whispered, "I can feel you every time I move."

Still grasping his razor, Zeke put both hands down, resting them on the edge of the sink. "I don't know what happened there last night...I was a little stoned but that's no excuse..."

"It was perfect."

"I'm...afraid...that I went too far."

Casey crept up and put his arms around Zeke's torso, resting his face sideways against his back. "It was perfect," he murmured. He realized, too late, that Zeke would be able to feel that his body was shaking with fine, constant tremors — well, since it was too late, he pressed in even harder, getting as close to Zeke as he could get. Zeke clasped one of his arms and they just stood there that way.

It was comfort, it was good — so it was a terrible, sickening thing when Casey suddenly felt himself dislodged. Zeke had twisted around to face him and reached for both his hands. Just for an instant, Casey didn't know what he was going to do and he clenched up, preparing to propel himself away until he saw Zeke's eyes, consumed with guilt.

"Tell me you're not hurt," Zeke said quietly.

"I'm not hurt."

"Say it again."

"I'm not hurt."

Zeke shook his head. "It's no good...I don't believe you." He moved away from Casey and sat down on the toilet seat, resting his head in his hands.

"It was just a bit...a little mistake. Things happen...I'll have a shower and I'll be as good as new...okay, Zeke? It's okay, don't worry..."

Maybe he had convinced Zeke; maybe not. He would never know, because at that moment Zeke stood up, advancing to his full height all at once. Casey's body involuntarily propelled him back a step, betraying him with an unmistakable flinch. He wouldn't be able to take it back.

Zeke looked stunned. "You're afraid of me."

"No...no, I'm not."

"What was that, then?"

"You just startled me, that's all. I'm all...just really disgusting and I...I don't want you touching me right now."

Casey realized the instant he finished speaking that he had fucked up. By the look on his face, Zeke was devastated.

"I'd like to take my shower," Casey said, feeling his mouth tremble.

Once he was feeling the magic of hot water, he would be better. Closer to normal — not actually normal of course, but capable of a convincing simulation. He washed himself with extreme thoroughness, checking himself again to make sure he wasn't bleeding. He just couldn't seem to stop trembling.

He dressed and presented himself in the kitchen, where Sasha was working with that raw meat, pressing it into hamburger shapes. Sasha sized him up from head to foot, no longer bothering to even attempt to disguise it. Casey forced himself to walk with a normal if not very smooth gait, which wouldn't have been possible without the shower.

From the smell in the kitchen, there was a lot of garlic in the meat. It made Casey feel a bit queasy and it occurred to him that his stomach was turning over mainly because it was empty. He decided that he wanted to make himself cinnamon toast although it somehow never tasted quite the same as when Sasha made it. He took the bread out of the cupboard — Sasha was forever putting away things that Casey and Zeke would have been content to leave on the counter — and pulled out two slices of multi-grain, putting them in the toaster.

"Before you ask," Sasha said lightly. "Zeke's upstairs having a smoke."

Casey nodded, fetching the other things he would need --- butter, and a shaker of cinnamon-sugar mix that Sasha liked to keep on hand.

The question came unexpectedly: "Sore, kitten?"

Casey tried to tough it out. He breathed though his alarm and acted dumb. "Huh?"

Sasha lowered his voice. "You promised to take it easy."

"I'm fine."

"Really? Because you don't look fine. You don't look or sound or act fine." From the sound of it, Sasha was quite angry. Casey put his back to the counter, facing him.

Finished with his burgers, Sasha moved to the sink; he washed his hands with neurotic thoroughness. "You know me, kitten. I don't want to be asking or thinking about what you two do. I'm all for public displays of affection but when it comes to sex...I think things like that should stay in the bedroom." Sasha rubbed his hands with a towel, again being extra vigorous.

"So stop talking about it," Casey muttered.

"I can't do that...especially when I get wakened in the middle of the night by creaking and moaning." Sasha advanced a step. Casey backed away, not wanting to be petted or stroked by him; Sasha halted in the middle of the kitchen and went on, "You know, I tried really hard to ignore things, I told myself a little wear and tear once in a while is nothing to worry about — and it wouldn't be except we're talking about you here, Casey. I could catch you with marks around your neck from some guy trying to throttle you to death and you'd try to tell me it was some special jewellery he gave you because he loves you so darned much."

Casey whispered, "At least then I know that something really happened."

Sasha just stared at him. Then he said, "Oh, kitten..."

They both heard Zeke's step at the same time and turned just as the door from the upstairs opened. "Something's burning..." Zeke said, and frowned as he took in their tableau.

Casey wrenched himself out of Sasha's long reach, noticing for the first time that a steady stream of smoke was rising from the toaster. Zeke casually reached for it and popped up two charred pieces of bread.

"Well, those are done for," Sasha said, his voice rough. "Anyway...it's lunchtime, you should have something more substantial, kitten."

"I don't want anything," Casey said, meaning it. It was just as well that the toast had been immolated.

"You need to eat."

Biting down on a snarl, Casey threatened, "I'll puke."

"What was going on just now?" Zeke asked quietly.

"You want to know?" Sasha returned.

"Yes. I want to know."

"Then I'll tell you," Sasha began, and paused, taking in Casey and Zeke and the half-finished hamburgers on the counter. "...but it'll have to be later. Right now we have a birthday party and I have a bunch of salads to make."

"Oh, just...chill about the party," Zeke said.

"Zeke, come on now — "

"But I don't really need a party."

"Please don't cancel it," Casey heard himself begging. He couldn't ruin this too, he couldn't, and if there was no party there would be no reason for Sasha not to tell Zeke at this very moment what he was going to tell him later...then it would all be over and he wouldn't be able to finish what he'd set out to do and Zeke would have left him too and he wouldn't have finished what he had to finish... "Please, I don't want it to be..." He sucked a breath and put his hand on the counter to steady himself. "There should be a party with candles and cake and s-streamers because...you know...it's...your birthday, Zeke...you de-deserve it...I — I mean — Sasha's got h- hamburgers — w-we went to the grocery store and bought — and Stokely baked with gluten so we have to..."

He trailed away as he saw how Sasha and Zeke were both staring at him. No one spoke for quite an eternity and he was teetering on the edge of an abyss. For those seconds his fate was entirely in their hands. They could speak and save him or just let him fall.

Finally, Sasha said, "You're right, kitten...We did promise Zeke a birthday event, didn't we? But the first thing I'm doing is...is...I'm going to make you a sandwich or you can make it, I don't care, but you're going to eat the whole thing. I don't care if it takes you all afternoon."

His voice was at its most familiar — pure solicitude with a tinge of bullying — and the void pulled back to crouch just at the edge of Casey's immediate awareness so that he could breathe at the very least. He could do what Sasha asked of him. "Okay," he mumbled obediently. "Okay...okay, Sasha."

"How's peanut butter sound?"

"Okay."

Sasha took the bread out and removed two fresh slices. Casey stepped back, getting out of his way, although he was not having quite as much success at standing still. He rocked from one foot to the other and watched Sasha fetch a butter knife from the drawer — and Zeke, who took the peanut butter from the cupboard and handed it to Sasha.

"Fetch me the jam, kitten."

It was a relief to have a task, and Casey went immediately to the refrigerator to carry it out. Behind him, he heard Zeke mutter to Sasha, "Are we actually doing this?"

"Yes," Sasha answered. "We are. We're going to have kick-ass burgers and cake with gluten — "

"And beer," Zeke threw in.

"Yes, beer..." Sasha accepted the jar of strawberry jam from Casey. "Thank you, kitten. So we're all going to have fun, okay...even if it kills us." No one said a word and Sasha pressed, "Right?"

"Right," Zeke chorused grimly. "Fun."

"Kitten?"

"I can do fun," Casey said.

"Excellent," Sasha said wearily, and lathered on the peanut butter.

 

Around five, Stokely showed up — to ice the cake she said, but it was a task that Sasha had already decided to take off her hands. When informed, she didn't seem particularly offended: "I'm no good at that stuff anyway."

She had also brought the assembly of cheap party favours that she and Casey had presumably hunted down the day before: Crepe paper streamers, a cut out "Happy Birthday", balloons, horns and a conical gold hat for the birthday boy. Zeke had been sitting there — taking the whole production with very good humor, he thought — until that last item was unveiled. "Hand it over," he said, as politely as he could under the circumstances.

"Why?" she said suspiciously.

"I want to try it on."

"Hah! Yeah, right. Like you'd make it that easy."

"You might as well give it to me. It is for me, isn't it?"

Sighing, Stokely handed the atrocious accessory over to him. "You know, Casey told me he really wants to see you wear this."

Zeke craned his neck to look up at Casey, who was standing just behind him. "That's not true, is it?"

It took Casey several seconds to acknowledge that he was being spoken to, and then he just shook his head.

Stokley made a face. "Work with me here, Case."

Zeke thought for the fiftieth time about cancelling the party, even though they were more or less past the point of no return now. There had been a lump of dread in his chest ever since — well, since he woke up. Even before he heard Casey make that terrible sound and he was propelled by horror and fear into the bedroom earlier today, there had been an ominous feeling of something not-good about to happen. He couldn't quite work out the shape of it, but it was bad fucking shit.

For that matter, if only he could have cancelled the last fourteen hours or so...wake up again in the middle of the night and this time pay better attention than he actually had. The fact that he had done nothing that Casey hadn't wanted was no absolution. He had been entirely inside his own head for most of it, swollen with his own power and maybe if he'd just switched that off for a few seconds he might have noticed that Casey was sounding like someone who was being broken. Of course Casey would deny it, but that was irrelevant to the facts.

This wasn't a way to live — and yet it was the story of Zeke's life since August. He was Zeke Tyler, supposedly one of the smartest people around. He had helped to save the world through the power of illicit chemistry. He had owned and managed his own business at twenty-two. He was supposed to be brilliant and here he had been brought low by as ephemeral a thing as a feeling? It was impossible but true.

He broke open the paper hat easily, snapping off the staples, and for extra measure, he turned the paper into confetti. Stokely pouted but said only, "Well, it was funny enough just picturing you wearing it. Case, you wanna help me with the rest of this stuff?"

Plainly, Casey was going along with the whole business of the cheap decorations for Stokely's sake only, but he willingly followed Stokely went into the living room; Zeke began to hear the sounds of plastic and paper crinkling and decided not to watch. He went to lean on the kitchen island and watch Sasha icing his birthday cake.

"Chocolate?" he asked, making conversation.

"You like chocolate, don't you?"

"Oh, yeah, sure — " Zeke stuck his finger in the bowl and got slapped with a spatula. "Ow!"

"How old are you, again?"

"Um...twenty-three."

"That old, huh." Sasha spun the cake, smoothing icing on the sides. "Ah, I remember twenty-three. It was a good time in my life."

"It is for me, too," Zeke said, and he meant it. He believed that people made their own luck, destiny, happiness, whatever...and he was going to make this time in his life good. He was going to stop acting like he was a pinball and get a handle on things. Exactly how he was going to do that he had no idea — but just having decided it was liberating.

Sasha took a break from his task and smiled wistfully at Zeke. He opened his mouth to speak but at that moment a blast of music came out of the speakers in the living room. It was Zeke's Nirvana CD, but at Casey's volume. Zeke wasn't able to control his initial flinch.

"Hey!" Sasha shouted. "A person would like to be able to carry on a conversation!"

Casey was already turning it down. "Sorry," he said over his shoulder.

Zeke straightened up and announced, "I think I'm going to have a beer now." He could feel a few party vibes starting tentatively in his gut — not because it was a particularly joyous occasion, but because there was now a significance to this day. This party was a temporal marker of his new resolve. He would not be Pinball Guy anymore. He would think before he spoke or acted, and especially before he listened to what any of his other body parts had to say on a matter. Starting tomorrow. No, starting right now. "Do we have chips?" he asked, because they went with beer.

Sasha uttered a sigh. "Yes. We have chips. But we also have a nice platter of veggies and dip."

"Surely there's nothing wrong with eating vegetables and chips at the same party."

Behind him, he heard Stokely directing, "A bit higher, Case. No, higher. No, that's too high, drop it a bit..."

Sasha handed him his beer over the counter. "There you go, birthday boy."

"Thanks."

Zeke retrieved the vegetable platter and a couple of bags of chips and set them out on the kitchen table — after Sasha stepped in and insisted that the chips be properly served in bowls — and then just sat down and watched the various preparations happening in front of him. Stokely and Casey had gotten one of those "Happy Birthday" signs that expanded accordion-style, and they were attempting to tape it up to the wall. There were also multi-coloured streamers hanging off things. Zeke noticed that Casey was looking a little bit tight-lipped and figured it was annoyance at Stokely's nitpicking.

They were almost finished when the doorbell rang; it was Jerry, carrying a wrapped parcel and a bottle of wine. Sasha welcomed him with an almost chaste kiss and immediately opened the wine; it had to breathe of course before Jerry would drink it. Meanwhile, Jerry had strolled in and offered Zeke a handshake.

"Happy Birthday, Zeke."

"Thanks, man."

"So is school all wrapped up for the semester?"

"I still have exams, I'm just taking a few days off."

"Good idea. You don't want to overdo it." Jerry waved to Casey in the living room. "Hey, Casey...Stokely."

Zeke called over, "It looks like you're done, guys, take a break from that and come over here. Sasha's letting us have chips so you had better make your move before I eat them all."

"Oh, ha ha," Sasha said from the kitchen. "Like you two don't eat nothing but junk food every night that I'm not here." He squirmed as Jerry came up behind him and kissed his neck. "Hey! Stop that or I'll muck up the cake."

"It's fixable," Jerry said, and deliberately disobeyed him, kissing him again. "I feel like I haven't seen you in decades."

"You saw me just last night, silly."

"Work doesn't count — "

It seemed that Jerry suddenly noticed that Zeke was listening; he left off that discussion but Zeke had an idea that Jerry didn't consider it anywhere near finished. Meanwhile, Stokely and Casey came in from the living room; Stokely immediately started mining the chip bowl, while Casey stayed back slightly.

"Hey, Casey," Jerry said, "What happened to your face?"

Casey jerked a look at him.

"I mean — your chin. That's pretty spectacular."

"Fell in the shower," Casey replied.

"Must have hurt."

Casey shrugged, staring off into some corner of his personal head space.

In the background, Kurt Cobain was wailing: Let me clip your dirty wings...let me take a ride...don't hurt yourself...I want some help...to help myself —

Zeke stood up suddenly. "I'm going to put on some other music," he said.

He tried to find a CD in their collection that could be approved by everyone but there was no such item. He ended up putting on Duran Duran's Greatest Hits since it would offend the least number of people and didn't feature any suicidal rock musicians.

Stokely groaned as the first strains of "Planet Earth" sounded throughout the living room and dining area. "Oh, Zeke...why?"

Returning to his seat, he retorted, "We don't have any CD's that everyone here would like."

"How about some nice Billy Holliday?" Sasha called out. "Who could object to that?"

"I would," Stokely muttered. She grinned at Casey, who was standing nearby, looking fidgety.

"You know, we could all sit in the living room," Sasha proposed as he came out from behind the kitchen island. He had a glass of wine within reach, and Jerry was also on hand, acting as his assistant. "There are much comfier seats there."

Of course, no one moved, which was consistent with Zeke's experience. For some reason, all parties gravitated toward the kitchen.

"We have soda, kitten," Sasha announced. "I'll get you one if you want."

"Soda and chips!" Stokely decried.

"Only on special occasions."

"Maybe he'd like a beer," Jerry suggested, encouraging Casey to misbehave with a nod and a wag of his eyebrows. Sasha scowled at him.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Zeke said without hesitation although he wasn't in possession of completely sound reasoning about it. Casey had been warned about drinking alcohol while taking Klonopin but he probably wouldn't suffer any harm from a single beer. It was just that if he needed to take a Xanax at some point, it could get really complicated. Not that Zeke was expecting anything to happen. He was just being proactive.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Stokely said. "Are you ever going to let Casey decide something for himself?"

"I'm just saying..."

"I agree with Zeke," Sasha put in, addressing this to Casey. "Kitten, you shouldn't...and not just because it's illegal — "

"I don't like beer," Casey said, overriding all of them.

Stokely snickered. "I guess that settles that."

"Or wine," Casey added. "I don't really like the taste of alcohol."

"Huh," Jerry commented. "I wish I could say that. But in the meantime, I have to say this is one damn tasty Merlot." He held up his empty glass.

Sasha patted his arm. "Yes, I'll get you a refill. And a soda for you, Casey."

"What's that, Sasha? Would I like a beer?" Stokely said archly. "Why, yes, thanks."

"Really?" Zeke said to Stokely.

"Yep. I'm cutting loose tonight."

Sasha made a face but otherwise the potential illegality of giving beer to Stokely didn't seem to bother him all that much; he headed to the refrigerator laden with drink requests.

Stokely plopped herself in a chair. "So what do you think of the decorations, Zeke?"

Zeke swallowed his first reply and tried to be gracious. "Very nice," he said.

Stokely burst out into giggles, appealing to Casey who obliged her with a slight grin. "They're supposed to be a joke, you don't have to like them!"

"Oh. In that case I can't stand them."

"That's better!"

The doorbell rang once more, and Zeke suddenly felt certain that it was Winona. He could see Casey's body tense and his own heart started to pound violently until he heard Stan's voice and suddenly recalled that he had told Winona to come at eight. There was still almost an hour's reprieve.

Stan was welcomed in and he greeted everyone in his slightly diffident, jock way before helping himself to the beer stocks. The first thing he did was clink his bottle with Zeke's. "Happy birthday, man."

"Thanks, buddy," Zeke replied.

"Hey, Case." Stan's gaze stuttered over the bruise on Casey's face for a second, but he didn't comment. "So, like, I asked Aunt Charly if she wanted to join me but she just couldn't make it."

Zeke felt his eyes bulge slightly.

"Just kidding." Stan slapped Zeke on the shoulder, and that was his way of letting him know that there were no hard feelings, although it probably had something to do with Sasha calling to apologize. Zeke hadn't asked about it but he supposed he should be grateful for that since his friends were still speaking to him. They were really quite tolerant of him, knowing that he still had an opinion about the alien issue and willing to let him prevail with it. And he was willing to let them disagree, even to let them think he was unreasonable. He didn't care, as long as Casey was safe.

"So what are we eating?" Stan asked.

"Stan!" Stokely protested.

"What? I'm just asking...I'm really kind of hungry."

"We're having hamburgers a la Zeke," Sasha answered readily. "I'm going to barbecue them up on the roof, but I wanted to wait until everyone is here."

Stan looked around. "Who else is coming?"

"Winona."

"Never heard of her."

"She's a friend of Zeke's from school," Sasha explained. He paused, then made free to say, "And she's late."

"No," Zeke corrected him. "I told her eight o'clock. I wasn't sure about the time so I just picked a number."

Casey moved suddenly, propelling himself away from the table. Everyone stared and Zeke clenched himself for some kind of outburst but all Casey did was walk down the hall, presumably to the bathroom. Zeke had to exercise extreme discipline not to go after him, which was a good thing because Casey was back maybe five minutes later and had apparently made the decision to adopt Zeke as his chair. It was fine by Zeke but a bit odd because Casey didn't seem at all comfortable on Zeke's lap. He didn't settle; he perched, holding his body rigid as though he much rather would have been standing. Zeke put an arm loosely around his waist to steady him.

The conversation broke into splinters. Jerry and Sasha were animatedly discussing some business from the restaurant, while Stan and Stokely were going on about that Tara person who was Stokely's co-worker. Zeke watched the two of them interact and wondered if they were back together. Suddenly they seemed far more close and easy with each other than they had ever been before the break-up. He knew for his own part that he still considered Delilah a friend — but then they all had something a little extra holding them together, didn't they? Or was it just that Stokley and Stan had been friends for a long time and wanted to continue being friends? And would it be rude to just ask outright if they were dating?

Speculation about the correct classification of Stan and Stokely's relationship couldn't quite beat down the rising knowledge of Winona's imminent arrival. Casey's strange posture and tense calm were a constant reminder, and Zeke was feeling pretty edgy himself. He downed his first beer quickly and put out a general request for someone to get him another since he didn't want to dislodge Casey — but Casey jumped up before anyone else could and fetched it for him.

As Casey put the beer bottle on the table beside Zeke, he moved in close to Zeke's body, right in between his knees. Still standing, he lowered his head and initiated a searing kiss that Zeke felt all the way into his toes. Casey's fingers crawled up into his hair as the taste of him spread through Zeke's mouth and throat. It was a gentle, constant pressure that expanded into a firm, open-mouthed exploration. Finally it wrapped up with a tender flurry against Zeke's lips and jaw.

Casey stepped back, with a faint and mysterious tilt to his shining lips. He took his hand and gently traced Zeke's wet mouth with his thumb...so Zeke supposed that he was drooling. He was also in no state to stand up in public.

When he dared to look beyond Casey he saw a range of expressions. Stan, he noticed, merely looked stupified. There wasn't a trace of disgust that Zeke could see, but perhaps shock had overtaken it for now. Stokely was grinning openly, and Jerry was smiling somewhat self-consciously, almost but not quite hiding his eyes. "Whew," he said, his cheeks pinking. "What was that?"

"A birthday present," Casey said throatily, his attention still mainly on Zeke — but with that he turned himself to meet Sasha's gaze. Zeke had no idea what was passing between them. Sasha didn't look angry or disapproving — just sad.

"Um...thank you, I guess," Zeke said. His voice cracked a bit, making everyone laugh. Even Sasha smiled a little.

Casey didn't resume sitting on Zeke's lap. He just stood, remaining very close to Zeke, and Zeke had a moment of insight which may very have contained an element of psychosis too — that Casey was standing because he couldn't sit down and everyone in the room knew it and they were looking at the two of them, scrutinizing them, trying to make up their minds about Zeke and Casey's relationship just as Zeke had been doing to them, on an off, all evening. And they were thinking that, whatever this relationship was, it was very good for Zeke but not very good for Casey.

"So, um..." Zeke faltered. "Stan...you going back to Herrington for Christmas?"

"You bet!" Stan replied. "Only for a week, but I am so totally looking forward to a bit of time off. Aunt Charly works me like a dog."

A deliberate infusion of sarcastic wit went a long way to repairing Zeke's composure. "Why does that not surprise me?" he returned.

"Hey...be nice," Stokely warned, eyes narrowing slightly.

"I don't mind working hard," Stan said. "Not at all...it's just nice to have a break."

"I hear you," Zeke said, and looked pointedly at Stokely. "What about you, Stokes? Going home for Christmas?"

"Of course — hey, Case, we could get everyone together for a little Christmas movie festival at my parents' house."

If she was hoping for some animation from Casey, she was disappointed. He just nodded and smiled slightly. He reached across the table and took a couple of chips. There was something odd about the motion and Zeke had to puzzle over it for a few seconds until he realized that Casey was not shaking. Casey was absolutely steady, like a person completely comfortable in his surroundings — or not comfortable but completely resigned.

"When are you going home, Zeke?" Stokely continued brightly.

"Um..." Zeke started, distracted. "Well, I'm not going home per se...I'm going to stay with the Connors but anyway, my last exam is on December 18th...so right after that I guess." Halfway through his second beer, Zeke noticed that the alcohol was affecting him far more than he was accustomed to. It must have to do with the anti-histimines and decongestants still in his system, even though he hadn't taken any for over twenty-four hours.

The doorbell rang. Involuntarily, Zeke reached for Casey's hand and gripped it tightly. Casey looked down into Zeke's eyes and Zeke abruptly remembered his voice last night choking on the "love you" like it was some last act of surrender.

Sasha had gone to get the door. "Hello," they heard him say in his best host's voice.

"Hi."

A pause.

"I'm Winona."

"Hi, I'm Sasha, Zeke and Casey's roommate."

"Yeah, it's great to meet you. I, uh...I hope you don't mind, I brought an extra body. This is my friend Karen...she lives in my building..."

Whatever Casey had prepared himself for, it could not have included an additional guest. He had gone absolutely rigid. His face was long past the colour white, taking on a bluish tone. Zeke squeezed and massaged his hand, trying to reassure him. From across the potato chips, Stokely met Zeke's eyes with her own brows raised.

"Oh, sure...the more the merrier," Sasha replied.

"Hi, uh...Sasha, right?" said a strange voice. "Sorry to crash like this, I hope it's okay. I just wasn't doing anything tonight and I thought I'd drop in on Winona but it turned out she was going out, so I thought I might just...you know, tag along."

"No problem."

"Great — hey, it's snowing out there. Did you see?"

There were mutters and various manoeuvrings of getting coats and shoes off, and drinks for the new arrivals. Karen had brought a case of beer with her, Zeke overheard...then finally they appeared to those assembled around the dining table. The new girl was skinny and blond, perhaps thirty-five, with a ruddy complexion. She was wearing tight jeans and a sleeveless cotton t-shirt that stated "Diva". Zeke tried to decide if Winona had just gotten away with something or if she had just been trying to have a good idea. He would have been tempted to go with "good idea" except that Casey's unease was still entirely evident and showing little sign of abating. He was trembling slightly, the spell of eerie calm completely unravelled.

Sasha launched into a round of introductions. "Okay, this is Jerry, that's Stokely and Stan and — Winona, you know Zeke and Casey, of course. Everyone, this is Karen."

"Which one's the birthday boy?" Karen asked, squinting a little. She had a slightly gruff, overused voice, and Zeke realized that Karen was already more than half in the bag.

Zeke raised his hand.

"Oh, hi, Happy Birthday! I didn't bring you anything, I'm afraid, but I give great birthday kisses."

There was a slight, strained moment. Zeke said, "I've already had one, thanks."

Winona nudged her friend. "He's spoken for, remember."

"Oh, damn."

Winona held up a small gift bag that was perfectly decorated with multi- coloured tissue paper and ribbon. "Do we have a place for prezzies?"

"Yeah, right there." Sasha directed her to a spot on the floor nearby where they had been collecting the gifts. "Excuse me for a second." He went back to his kitchen; Zeke heard him banging around, putting something in the oven.

Stokely asked, "Did I hear you say it's snowing? For real?"

"Uh-huh," Karen returned. She tipped back her beer and took in three quarters of it like a pro. "But you know it will probably be raining soon and by morning it'll just be a skating rink out there. Right now it looks real nice."

"I've never cooked in the snow," Sasha mused, reemerging from the kitchen.

"Say again?" Karen asked.

"I was going to grill some burgers. I bought a hibatchi just for the occasion."

"Where? In the alleyway?"

"No, up on the roof, we have a space up there..." Sasha was obviously thinking as he spoke. "In fact...I think I'll go to it before it gets any wetter."

He took a step in the direction of the kitchen and Casey jerked into motion. "I'll help," he said.

"Naw, kitten, it's damp, I don't want you to — "

"I want to help," Casey insisted, a note of almost hysterical obstinacy entering his voice.

Sasha gave him a once over and conceded. "Of course," he said, and then made an enormous production of getting Casey sufficiently bundled for the roof, doubling his own scarf around Casey's neck so that in the end almost half of Casey's face was obscured. Casey refused the suggestion that he put on his new, as-yet- unworn boots, however, preferring the convenience of his running shoes. Zeke watched and listening along with everyone else, and hoped that when he was doing his own overprotective shtick, he didn't come off half as cloying and over-the-top as Sasha.

Finally, they went upstairs, lugging the new equipment, related accessories, and the platter of raw burgers.

Karen sat down in the chair Sasha had vacated, while Winona remained standing, nibbling on carrots and cauliflower. "Duran Duran!" Karen exclaimed, noticing the music emanating from the speakers in the living room.

"Yeah — " Zeke said, preparing to defend his choice.

"Cool. Oh, god, when I was twelve I had such a crush on Simon le Bon."

There were blank looks, although Zeke thought that Jerry showed some reluctant recognition.

"Come on!" Karen said. "Simon le Bon, Nick Rhodes, John Taylor..."

"It was a little before our time," Stokely explained primly, as though she had never heard of the band. Zeke was pretty sure that she had.

"Right, of course..." Karen sighed. "I feel so old." She put her purse up on the table and began rummaging through it. "Is it okay if I smoke in here?"

"Actually..." Zeke answered. "Smoking only happens up on the roof."

"Shit. And I'm not ready to go outside again just yet." Karen sighed. "Oh, well...in a little while, then." She looked around, taking in the living room from where she sat. "You guys have a nice place here."

"Thanks," Zeke said.

Stan got up. "I'm getting another beer, anyone want one?"

"Yeah," Zeke said.

"Me, too," Stokely added.

Over the next twenty minutes, Zeke relaxed slightly and admitted that there was one good thing about this new person: She never let the conversation lapse for more than a few seconds. Winona had probably thought that bringing another person would dilute her own presence, which was a sound theory. Unfortunately, she didn't quite grasp the nature of Casey's anxieties. She knew he had difficulty when outside the apartment, of course, but probably hadn't considered the impact of bringing one of the outside people inside without advance notice.

"I'm going to have a smoke," Zeke announced. He was feeling two kinds of need, in fact; the urge to talk to Casey and entice him back downstairs was perhaps the more pressing.

To his dismay, Karen immediately jumped up and retrieved her scarf and coat, following him to the door. "I'll go with you, then."

She kept talking the entire way up the stairs, but Zeke made no effort to follow what she was saying. He thought it had something to do with the weather. It was indeed snowing, with the kind of enormous wet flakes that often accompanied a mild temperature and Karen was right; it would probably change to rain at some point during the night.

Sasha was standing at the small barbecue wearing a heavy jacket, holding his glass of wine. Casey was standing very close to him, brandishing the tongs in his gloved hands like he was assisting a surgery. At the sound of Karen's voice, they both turned quickly.

"Hi, guys!" Karen said.

Tipping out one of his cigarettes, Zeke joined them beside the hibatchi. Twelve burgers were sizzling delightfully.

"Almost done," Sasha said.

"Those smell fantastic," Karen said, lighting up her own smoke and shivering. She cupped a hand over it to protect it from the wet snowfall. "What's in them?"

"Just garlic, salt, some parsley..." Sasha answered, shrugging.

Casey was wild-eyed. Zeke couldn't remember seeing him look this freaked out about a new person, not even when Winona had come to their apartment for the first time, and the implication that absolutely no progress had been made after all this time, that they had in fact managed to accomplish the opposite of progress, aroused a terrible weariness in Zeke. He put his hand on Casey's arm and gave Casey a look that pleaded with him to make the assumption, just for tonight, that everyone was really who they seemed to be...Just take the night off, Case, please, we'll figure this thing out, I promise.

In response, Casey pulled away like he was going to head to the door. Zeke tightened his hand and said, "Case..."

The anger that Zeke witnessed in Casey's face right then was stunning in its completeness. Casey yanked his arm away without a word and took several quick steps away from Zeke — and stepped on a patch of snow that was already well on its way to becoming ice. He slipped, going down in an undignified heap.

"Kitten!" Sasha cried.

"Shit!" Karen exclaimed.

Zeke put an arm out, warning Sasha to keep back, and got to Casey first. Casey was already up on his knees; Zeke took hold of him and helped him up, brushing bits of snow off of his jacket. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Casey said, his cheeks flushed. He tried to shrug off Zeke's hands. It was always embarrassing for an adult to fall in front of other adults, Zeke knew that, and he knew that he was compromising Casey's pride further by holding on to him as he was...however, he didn't let go.

"Did you hurt yourself, kitten?" Sasha wanted to know.

Casey squirmed in Zeke's grip and protested, "No, I'm — I'm okay — Zeke — I want to go back down."

"Fine," Zeke replied, and then whispered, "Would you just try a little?"

Casey retorted, not bothering to modulate his volume, "I always try. Please, would you...would you take your hands off me?"

Stung, Zeke let him go, lifting his hands in the air with exaggerated resignation.

Casey took a step backwards. Just one step and then he said quietly, "You're so afraid of how things look."

"I am not — "

"You are. You worry all the time about how crazy it looks how everyone might be laughing at us and saying we're just lying or mixed up...but you don't really know a thing about it."

"What?" Zeke gasped. "What do you mean by that?"

Casey just shook his head.

"What are you trying to say?" Zeke demanded.

"Nothing." Casey took two more steps. "Just...I don't want to be the crazy one but I have to...You deal with the real stuff, Zeke, and I deal with the stuff that might not be real but if it is then we're all in trouble. So I have to be crazy, see? I can't figure out any other way."

"Casey...what the fuck are you talking about?"

Casey swallowed, like he was trying to find the courage to say something. Then he slipped away from him and down the stairs. He muttered something else as he went, but Zeke couldn't hear it.

Sasha and Karen had probably heard bits of the hissed conversation but not all of it. Sasha watched Zeke with open anxiety. Karen dropped her cigarette and cleared her throat. "I don't bite," she commented.

"Of course, you don't," Zeke muttered. That was the entire point he had been trying to make, wasn't it? She might be a party-crashing, beer-swilling loud- mouth, but she wasn't dangerous, for fuck sake.

Karen blinked at his tone. "Um...it's a little chilly here. See you downstairs." Zeke finally lit up his long forgotten cigarette. He took several hauls on it and dropped the remains on the ground, noting rather belatedly that his hand was shaking.

Sasha declared, "I have things to say to you."

"Not now, please."

"I'm not planning on saying them now — except keep an eye on him."

"When do I not keep an eye on him?"

"Zeke, you..." Sasha shook his head. "You've been kind of distracted, you know? It's not your fault, you were sick and you had stuff to do...like you said, you weren't paying attention." Before Zeke could react, Sasha asked, "Can you fetch me a platter for these?"

When Zeke went back downstairs he didn't see Casey at the kitchen table, but Stokely gave him a brief, unspoken report, pointing to the living room. Zeke quickly delivered the platter to Sasha upstairs, then hastened back inside. Karen and Winona were at the stereo, making like they were DJ's; Duran Duran had been silenced. Jerry was busy setting out everything they would need to eat, including the condiments and the salads. Stokely and Stan had moved to sit near Casey, who was in the furthest corner of the living room. He was resting his elbow on the arm of the sofa and his head in his hand like it was hurting him, occasionally jerking and staring at Winona or Karen in accordance not with their actions but with some internal cues he was receiving.

"Hey, Zeke, what kind of music do you like?" Karen called. "Linkin Park, Deftones, Kidney Thieves...ugh, Marilyn Manson...this stuff isn't yours, Zeke, is it? ‘Pod'. What's that mean?"

"I think that's ‘P.O.D.'," Zeke said, glancing in Casey's direction.

"Don't you have anything danceable?"

"It's ‘Payable On Death'."

Casey had spoken this, and Karen and Winona both twisted to look at him. "Say what?" Winona asked.

"‘P.O.D.' stands for ‘Payable On Death'."

"How cheerful," Winona muttered.

Zeke pulled out a compilation of Top Forty pop tunes that was one of Sasha's collection and offered it to her. "Try this."

"Oh, this looks good."

"Come and get it!" Sasha called.

Everything was quiet while they ate, if not peaceful. The burgers were delicious and Sasha got the raves he deserved. Being Sasha, he had naturally paired the burgers with some exotic salads, but as a concession to Zeke's palate, he had concocted some kind of cheesy potato casserole that could been drawn from a lady's auxiliary cookbook of the sixties, except being Sasha he had jazzed them up with several different kinds of cheese and a conspicuous absence of canned anything. It was a hit with everyone, though, even Jerry. Zeke ate two burgers and a mound of the potato goo and a large pile of salad. He also had another beer.

Once again, Casey wasn't eating; he had put some food on his plate but was sitting with it on his lap, contemplating some mysteries that only he understood and Zeke was fed up with the whole business. This not-eating crap was nothing more than an exercise in jerking people around, a way for Casey to take and hold control over something.

Evidently, Sasha hadn't figured that out. He made a horrible scene of trying scold and bully Casey into eating; Zeke noticed pained faces all around. Even Jerry was squirming at the saccharine lacing every endearment that dripped from Sasha's lips. None of it worked, of course. Sasha should have been able to recognize by now when Casey wasn't in the mood to act mature or well-adjusted.

Soon it was time to bring out the cake. Having exhausted his repertoire of wheedles and bribery with Casey, Sasha turned to the production of bringing the cake out, complete with candles. Stokely insisted on singing, which was painful enough but then she wanted Zeke to blow out the candles. At first he absolutely balked — until it was pointed out to him that wax was beginning to drip down onto the icing, so he swallowed his pride and blew them out, amidst overenthusiastic applause.

Sasha did not ask Casey if he wanted a piece; he cut one for him along with everyone else and as he handed it to Casey, he said, "No way do you get out of eating this...it's tradition."

Apparently, Winona had also reached the limit of how much of this she could hear without commenting. She rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath to Karen, something that Zeke couldn't hear. Zeke wondered if she really believed that she wasn't observed, or if she just didn't care.

Karen said to Casey, "You're a fussy eater, aren't you?"

"Oh, he just eats like a little bird," Winona put in. It was almost sneering.

Zeke was going to say something but Casey glared right back at Winona and said, "I'm just not feeling very hungry for some reason."

Winona shrugged. "Too bad...this is really good."

Perhaps motivated by obligation to his friend, Casey put his fork to it and took a bite. "It is good," he agreed unexpectedly, and politely finished a quarter of the piece that Sasha had given him, which was no less than five inches thick.

Everyone quickly agreed, heaping Stokely with praise. The ambience in the room lightened slightly and Sasha announced that it was time to open some gifts. Zeke found himself bemused by all of the energy surrounding a single day, even if it did commemorate his coming into the world. He had no memory of ever having any sort of party or celebration before. His parents would give him gifts, often lavish ones, but his mother had declared early on that he was too smart and precocious to enjoy stupid fripperies like paper hats and loot bags. On that point if nothing else, he would have to say that she wasn't far wrong.

The first gift that Sasha brought to Zeke to be opened was from himself. It was a large, heavy gift bag that Zeke assumed to be books. He briefly turned his mind to the question of Casey's gift, which he hadn't seen and was kind of curious about...but he made himself stop there. Casey didn't have a lot of money, after all.

Sasha's gift was three books, actually, and they were perfect — one a work of contemporary philosophy, another called The Home Chemist which made Zeke laugh out loud, and the third was Help, My Apartment Has a Kitchen. For a gag, Sasha had also tossed in a package of Nicorette.

"Oh, that's hys-sterical," Zeke said, surprised to hear his words slur.

Sasha smiled at him but said nothing.

"If you're going to quit," Karen volunteered, "You should try the patch. I managed to quit once for about a year and it really helped."

"I didn't say I was quitting," Zeke returned.

Thankfully, no one pursued the topic any further and went on to open Stan's gift. It was a thirty dollar gift certificate from the Bayview. "Hey, that's-s awesome," he said happily. "I didn't even know they had gift certificates."

"They do when it's for you," Stan answered. "I think you're their best customer."

"Thanks, pal," Zeke said, meaning it.

Sasha brought him another package, this one from Jerry. Unwrapping it, he found a very stylish wool sweater in shades of red — maybe Jerry had overheard Zeke complaining about how all his sweaters were misshapen — and a book on the history of beer.

"Wow, thanks."

Jerry shrugged. "Don't mention it."

And Stokely had also bought him a book, titled A History of Bisexuality.

"Fuck, I have a lot of reading to do," Zeke said, not displeased at all. In fact, he was quite surprised by how skillfully his friends had chosen gifts for him. He had been going around thinking he was inscrutable, but apparently he wasn't.

"Is it — " Stokely began anxiously.

"It's great. I think I could get into this birthday thing." With that, Zeke peered into the gift bag from Winona. He found a bag of chocolate-covered coffee beans and a nondescript envelope. He was expecting gift certificates of some kind but when he opened it, it turned out to be two tickets to Garagefest, a major Seattle rock festival in April.

"What is it?" Stan wanted to know.

"Tickets to Garagefest," Zeke replied, stunned. The cost wasn't printed on them, but Zeke knew they had to be expensive.

"Fuck me," was Stan's comment.

Zeke said to Winona, "You didn't have to do this."

"I know," she replied, shrugging. "It's kind of a thank you for supporting me."

"But can you afford this?"

"I was working full-time for quite a few years before this year so don't worry about it."

"Well...thank you." Zeke wondered if she had bought herself a ticket too, if she intended for it to be a threesome or if she was assuming that the second ticket was for her. He doubted it, though; it just wasn't very likely. Zeke looked over at Casey, who was therefore also a recipient of the gift, and in a way it was much more appropriate for him than Zeke. Maybe Winona was aware of that and she was making a peace offering. "Look at this, Case."

"Mmm," Casey said only.

His arms were folded across his chest; if he got the point, he refused to acknowledge it and Zeke thought it best not to push him. He put the tickets and envelope down on the kitchen table with the rest of his loot and said, "Thank you, everyone, this is great. Only one thing would make it complete."

"What's that?" Sasha asked, frowning slightly.

"If someone would fetch me a beer."

"I'll get — " Winona started.

But Casey was already up and heading to the kitchen. "No, I'll get it."

She waved her hands. "Fine, whatever. Could you bring me one too, then?"

It was as though he hadn't heard her. Moments later he was back with Zeke's beer only; after handing it to Zeke he took up a position standing against the wall near him, not even looking in Winona's direction, and dashing any lingering hope that he might be capable of playing nice for just a few hours.

Winona traded a look of incredulity with Karen. "Okay then," she loudly. "I'll get one myself."

The air in the room was getting difficult to breathe. Zeke said to Casey, "Are you going to sit?"

"No."

"Not even with me?"

"No."

At that moment Winona happened to be passing Casey on her way back in from the kitchen. She paused in front of him and offered, with a magnanimous wave, "You can have my seat...I don't mind standing for a while to stretch my legs — "

She hadn't given the appearance of even contemplating touching him but he leapt into motion suddenly, exploding off the wall and pushing her with a measure of force that amounted to a blow. She staggered and dropped her open bottle of beer on the carpet. Staring down at the spreading stain, she growled, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

In a voice that sounded like a repressed scream, Casey said, "Don't you ever fucking touch me again."

Zeke considered diving to pick up the beer that was still emptying itself onto the carpet and decided that it was not the priority. All the same, he felt the need to be on his feet.

"I wasn't going to touch you. I've never done anything to you." Winona's face was contorted with emotion. "You know, I don't know what else I can do. I try to be friendly — "

Casey made a harsh noise that resembled a laugh only slightly.

Winona blurted, "For the millionth time, I'm not interested in Zeke that way!"

"You think you can erase me," he accused.

"What? You're fucking nuts."

During the course of this exchange, Sasha had moved gradually closer and was now hovering near Casey. Casey didn't miss the fact that his friends were not too subtly closing in on him. He took a step back, the warning on his face very clear.

"Case..." Zeke pleaded with him.

Casey mimicked him: "‘Stop being crazy, Casey'...'stop making a scene, Casey'."

"That's not what I'm saying."

"No, you're saying stop being mean stop being afraid Casey she's not going to hurt you she's just a person like anyone else.'"

"Why can't you get it through your head that I'm not your enemy!" Winona cried.

"Winona, don't help," Sasha said urgently.

It was too late; Casey had already fixated on her words and he said, "But you see, I have this problem. I can't really tell the difference between friends and enemies because aliens came to my home town this one time and took over everyone's body — "

"Casey!" Zeke exploded.

" — they took over everyone, they tried to invade me — invade us — "

"Casey, shut the fuck up!"

Silence prevailed while everyone in the room gaped at Casey, and then Zeke, and then back at Casey, bracing themselves for the next act. Zeke expected histrionics, fear, remonstrations from his friends. He expected Casey to run away or cringe and beg for apology, but Casey did none of that.

He gazed intently at Zeke for several moments, with a look that Zeke would never quite manage to break down to its component parts. Anger was a big part of it, and grief, but there were other things going on that Zeke didn't recall seeing mixed up with those before. Casey said, "I'm sorry, Zeke, but I can't. It's too late..."

"Too late for what?"

"I can't shut up about it."

"What do you...?"

Casey lifted his chin. He didn't say it, but Zeke just knew.

He had imagined, over and over, how he would react when he learned that the thing that he feared the most had happened but the reality was surprising. He had imagined screaming and jumping up and down and yelling in anger. Instead, he just did his best to hear what he was hearing. "You told Yves," he said. Just to make sure that he and Casey were talking about the same thing.

"Yes," Casey said, and he was not just telling Zeke. He said it almost vindictively, like he wanted it to hurt.

"Well," Zeke said. His mouth felt numb. "That was always your call to make." He realized the moment after how cold that sounded but there was no way to take it back. Nor did he want to. What he wanted was to seize Casey by the neck and shake him, shake him and shout Why don't you listen why do you have to do this to me don't you realize how much I've given to protect you and now you just go and throw it all away you just have to prove that you're crazy and fucked up don't you —

Zeke would have liked to focus on the matter of own personal meltdown but he didn't have the luxury, because Casey was not finished with Winona. He told her, "I want you to leave and never come back."

She put her hands on her hips. "Or what? You can't control who Zeke talks to...I mean, you hide here all day and you expect him to just stay here in a little box?"

"I may be fucked up," Casey hissed. "But I know how to deal with you."

"What is that? Is that a threat?"

Sasha raised his hands, trying to invoke a more peaceful energy. "Come on, guys, let's just chill here, okay?"

Casey didn't seem to hear him. He grabbed at something on the nearby kitchen table; Zeke realized that it was the Garagefest tickets.

"What are you doing?" Winona demanded. "Those are for you and Zeke — !"

"I'm not going to let you do it!" Casey sobbed. "All the time...it's have a coffee with me...Zeke have a beer with me go to a concert with me...you think you can get away with it but I know what you're about..."

He tore the tickets in half, to the accompaniment of various cries of dismay and protest — while Zeke just looked on. Zeke had known moments of paralysis in his life, but they were nothing to his current state of dysfunction.

Before Casey could rip the tickets into even smaller bits, Sasha sprang forward and grabbed his wrist. At about the same moment, though, Winona got to him. She attempted to snatch what was left of the tickets from him, and it was a mistake.

He launched himself at her, screaming, "I won't let you, not this time...not this time...!" His fists landed two blows before Stan grabbed him and pulled him away from her. Using Casey's own momentum, Stan propelled Casey into the nearby armchair and held him face-down against the upholstery.

All became pandemonium. Jerry was stunned into immobility initially, then, rushing to get paper towels, he knelt down and attempted to sop up the beer puddle but not very efficiently as he was more busy with gaping at Casey. Stokely stood rooted in place, tears in her eyes. Winona was crying outright and mumbling "He hit me...he hit me..." while pressing her hand over a bleeding nose; Karen tried to console her with "Jesus fuck...fucking hell, he attacked you...that was...total sucker punch..." and all the while Stan's pleading rose through it: "Take it easy, Case, take it easy..." His words had no effect on Casey, who was still struggling violently and pouring out a stream of invective: "No, I won't, you can't do it you bitch you fucking bitch leave me the fuck alone go away!"

And still all Zeke could do was watch.

Sasha took action first, grabbing Stan's collar. "Get off him!"

"But he's — "

"Just get off!"

Stan let go and Casey immediately surged up only to find himself hemmed in by Sasha's long arms and legs. Casey continued mindlessly to resist; his hysteria even intensified as he fought with Sasha and the chair. "Jerry," Sasha said calmly, keeping his head just out of range of Casey's, "there's a bottle of pills in my right bedside table. Could you get me one?"

"Yes...yes..." Jerry mumbled, straightening up. He left the sodden paper towels as they were and quickly scuttled out of the room.

"He hit me!" Winona sobbed once more.

In response, Casey thrashed a bit harder and renewed his screaming. "Leave me alone leave me alone fucking leave me alone...!"

"Winona, can you please go somewhere else?" Sasha requested, managing to make it sound polite.

Karen glared at Sasha but said to Winona, "Come on, let's go wash your face, sweetie."

"I'm sorry," Zeke mouthed to no one in particular as Winona was escorted to the bathroom.

Stan and Stokely were now standing together holding hands like they didn't realize they were doing it, reaching out to each other for comfort out of habit. "Can I help?" Stokely asked Zeke, wiping the back of her other hand across her face.

Zeke shook his head, his eyes on Casey and Sasha. Sasha had gotten Casey to be almost still; Casey remained half folded in the chair, his body rigid and ready to erupt the moment that he was released, his fists clenched. Sasha had his cheek pressed against the back of Casey's head and was desperately and methodically caressing his hair.

Zeke compelled himself to stand and take a step towards them. Casey jerked violently in Sasha's hold.

"No, no, no, kitten!" Sasha said, not-quite calm. "Still...be still..."

"Can't — " Casey choked. "Can't — she's — here — they'll make me — "

"Yes, you can because it's safe, it's okay..."

Jerry had returned with a pill in his hand and a glass of water. He came to stand nearby, just within Sasha's reach.

"I have a pill for you, kit — "

"No!"

"Yes, you'll feel better."

"Don't want to — have to — have to get her before she — she gets us — she'll get us all — get me — please — "

"Casey, stop this now, do you hear me!" Sasha ordered. "This is not you! Now I'm going to count to three and then you're going to let go and take this pill and that's that! Ready? One...two...three..."

Nothing happened at first. Then Casey's body sagged noticeably. He started to tremble. He closed his eyes and tears began to squeeze out from under his lids. His hands fell open, signalling surrender.

Zeke had seen all he could stand to see for now; he stepped over the beer- stain and walked to the bathroom, intending to see if Winona was okay. It had looked like Casey hit her hard enough to draw blood — somehow, his Casey had done that and he couldn't comprehend it.

The door was halfway shut, blocking his view in, and as he walked down the hall, he gradually made out voices. They were hushed, intended to be secret, but from just outside the door he could hear everything perfectly.

Winona's voice: "...all fawn over him, and I really don't get it."

"To each his own," Karen replied.

"But he doesn't even look right, those eyes just freak me out and the way he's always making scenes...it bugs me."

"I do kind of feel sorry for him."

"Huh...maybe I would if I thought it was for real instead of for show. I can't stand his type, I wish he would just cut his wrists already if he's going to do it — no, seriously, Karen, it's fucking bullshit to go around holding that over everyone's head so they feel sorry for you."

"I guess."

Zeke pressed the door open and targeted Winona, sitting on the toilet seat holding a damp cloth against her face. Her right eye was beginning to look inflamed. She started guiltily to see him. She knew he must have heard something and said, "Zeke," exactly like she would have said, "Oh, shit."

Karen addressed Zeke indignantly. "She told me about him but this is just totally — "

"Shut up," he said, and somewhat to his surprise, she did. He closed the bathroom door most of the way, leaving it just ajar and asked Winona, because it needed to be asked, "Are you okay?"

"No," she whispered. "I'm not fucking okay."

He stared at her, muzzled by the emotions coursing through him. When he spoke, it was a feeling that had managed to surface and demand articulation: "He doesn't deserve to be hated by you."

Winona lowered the cloth and Karen took it from her to re-soak it with cool water. "Zeke, I didn't mean what I...I was just — I mean, he punched me in the face! I'm entitled to be a little pissed."

"Right...but that's what you really think...what you really thought all along, isn't it?"

Winona couldn't answer.

"You should press charges," Karen declared fervently. She squeezed out the cloth, handing it back. "He totally assaulted you."

"Please don't." Zeke had heard it rumoured that he was supposed to be quite articulate, but there was no sign of it now. His vocabulary seemed to have been reduced to a few, hackneyed phrases. "He's not...like that."

Winona sighed, "It wouldn't make anything better."

"Thank you."

"I get that he's sick, I do get it, Zeke, but I really think...I know that you're letting him take advantage of you. Your life seems to revolve around him and he doesn't even appreciate it. He has no idea how much you're giving up for him all the time, every day and it isn't right, just because someone's sick doesn't mean they can use you."

Zeke was silent for a second, taking that in. Then he said, "Winona...we can't be friends anymore."

Winona's mouth pressed together and quivered. "Because I said a bad thing about him?"

"No, not that."

Her voice hardened, sounding more like it had when he was eavesdropping. "But Casey gets what Casey wants, doesn't he?"

"Winona..." It's hurting him and that should be reason enough...It should have been all along. "I can't be your counsellor or your guru, Winona. I don't have it in me. I'm sorry, I don't think you're a bad person but I don't have time to be your friend. I never did...but I was just trying to be a regular college student when I'm not. Not yet, anyway."

"Oh, that's nice," Karen commented.

Winona's eyes had gone to liquid. She retaliated, "Since day one it's been ‘Casey, Casey, Casey', we can't hurt poor Casey. He's abusing you, Zeke!"

Now was the time to be, as Sasha put it, brutally to the point.

"Maybe," Zeke returned, amazed at how easy it felt. "But it's my problem and I don't want to hear any more about it from you. Please leave."

Winona flinched like she had been stuck all over again. "Fine, you don't have to ask twice." She rose to her feet, putting the washcloth down on the bathroom sink with a dignity that Zeke recognized and respected.

Karen rose also, but she let Zeke know her opinion: "I think this sucks."

"Thank you for sharing," he said, which sounded rather ridiculous after the fact. He resolved not to ever say anything stupid ever again, and escorted them down the hall. He watched them pull on coats and hats and boots. Just as Winona put her hand on the door, he blurted, "I'm really, really sorry about the tickets. It was a thoughtful gift, I'll...pay you back for them if you like."

"Forget it," she growled. "Have a nice life."

"I wanted to say good luck with your son."

Winona paused just for a second, then said shortly, "You mean that?"

"Yes."

It would have been wishful thinking to hear a softening in her tone. What Zeke heard, he thought, was something infinitesimally less bitter. "Thank you," she said, face to the door.

Then she was gone.

Zeke returned to the living room and was momentarily alarmed to find no one there. After a moment he went to Sasha's room, which he had already passed by once in his state of general alarm, not noticing that everyone was standing in there as though they were holding a very awkward court. Sasha had gotten himself and Casey arranged on the bed; Casey was cradled in Sasha's lap, staring blankly at his chest.

"You guys should go too," Zeke said softly. "No offense."

Stan nodded, perhaps appreciating that the only thing he could do for Casey now was to reduce the embarrassment that he might feel. Stokely said nothing — but Jerry protested, "No, I want to stay."

Sasha glanced up. "There's nothing you can do to help, babe."

"But I want to be here."

"Jerry..."

"Even if I can't be useful, I'd like you to feel that I'm here for you."

Almost absently, Sasha shook his head and said, "I'll call you tomorrow."

With obvious pain twisting his mouth, Jerry whispered, "Right." When Sasha didn't reply, the sadness progressed to active grief. Sasha's preoccupation with Casey at that moment was complete and he didn't appear to realize when Jerry backed out of the room.

Zeke heard the door slam.

Stan and Stokely exchanged a look and made their way to the door; since Zeke had grasped that Sasha wouldn't permit him to have much more use right now than he had allowed Jerry, he followed them. They had put on their coats and shoes and had only to open the door to leave when Stan said, sounding miserable, "I didn't mean to make it worse."

Zeke blinked, trying to dredge up some response.

"When I pushed him down," Stan expanded. "I think, I..."

"Oh, no...no, I don't think you did anything wrong, Stan. I'm just relieved you stopped him."

Stokely whispered, "I never thought I'd see him actually hit someone like that...I can't believe it. Self-destruct, yes, but not...attack a person."

"It's not going to happen again," Zeke said immediately.

"How do you know?"

"This is a blip...I'm going to fix it."

There was a silence. Then Stan ventured, "Zeke, man...I don't know about...I mean, Casey doesn't seem very..."

"This is a blip," Zeke insisted, knowing he was arguing out of guilt and defensiveness and still unable to stop himself. "I'm going to deal with th —"

His voice broke. His two friends looked at him, appalled.

"You're right, Zeke," Stokely said, obviously placating him but he wasn't about to stop her. "I think it's going to be okay." She reached, paused, then resumed the motion, patting his arm. "You're good for him."

He was going to cry; it was only a matter of when. He nodded jerkily, hoping they would take the hint and see themselves out before he was completely exposed before them. Good friends, he was learning, knew when to take off so you didn't cry in front of them.

Standing alone in the entranceway at last, he put his head against the door and mashed his lips together, fighting back the tears. He breathed through it until he felt relatively calm, then walked back to Sasha's room. Sasha was still cuddling Casey, talking to him under his breath. Just from Casey's posture and the laxness in his body and his face, Zeke could tell that the Xanax was beginning to take effect. The real Casey had not yet been restored to him, but this Casey actually looked up at Zeke and didn't flinch or scream or rage. Zeke felt nothing much, neither guilt nor gratitude, but he sat down on the bed beside Casey.

"Oh, he's much, much calmer now," Sasha said, still in singsong. "Isn't that right, kitten?"

"Yeah," Casey said. He blinked heavily, and Zeke recalled that he was now operating under a double punch of sedatives. They would have to keep a careful eye on him once he was asleep. "Zeke...s-s-orry...I..."

"Winona's gone. We won't be seeing her again."

"...I told Yves."

"So I hear."

"I jus' wanted to...get better..."

Obeying some inner impulse that he wasn't sure he could identify, Zeke stood up, taking a few steps away to stand at Sasha's window. "What did she say?" he asked, noting his own coldness.

"She...she was-s very s-surprised."

"I guess so."

"She s-said...she needed to...to think about what it meant."

Zeke clenched his fists.

Casey ventured in a tiny voice, "M-maybe...maybe you could tell her too...s- so she knows I'm not the only one."

Zeke growled, "Oh, I don't think so. One of us has to maintain some credibility with the mental health profession." He heard a hissed intake of breath from Sasha and whirled on him. "I have you to thank for this, I suppose."

Sasha's expression tightened with anger. "Not at all. Casey knew what he had to do, I only encouraged him and supported him — like a friend should."

"I can just imagine how you supported him...listing all the things I do wrong, getting him to say it out loud..."

"I'm not going to have this fight with you."

"No, but you'll go around behind my back, won't you?"

"Zeke," Casey's voice slurred. "I had to ex-plain it...to her...or s-stop seeing her...tried to explain that to you but you...just kept saying ‘no', you wouldn't even talk about it. What else could I do?"

"Nothing, just what you did." Zeke took a few steps towards the door, stopped to say, "All we can do now is just hope that I am wrong." That was all the reassurance that he could give.

Casey whispered, "Where are you going?"

"For a smoke."

Zeke went and found his new birthday sweater and put it on, and another jacket, and went up to the roof. It had stopped snowing but it must have been raining just as Karen had forecast; the chairs were soaked. All the water was beginning to crystallize as the temperature dipped below freezing. He took up a safe position looking over the side wall down at the street and distractedly smoked one cigarette, and then another. His mind was brimming with fragments of concepts and words and images, all swirling around in one great malevolent mess that added up to nothing.

He didn't know how long he had actually been up there when Sasha appeared.

"Was that my surprise birthday gift?" Zeke wondered bitterly.

"What? No. Casey's present to you is hiding in my closet. He wanted to give it to you in private." There was fury in Sasha's tone. "You couldn't have managed to be just a little more understanding?"

"No. I couldn't." Zeke flicked ashes, asked despite himself, "Is he asleep?"

"No. He's fighting the Xanax but I don't want to give him another one." Sasha paused. "He's quite sure that you're leaving."

"Of course he is."

"Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Leaving."

Zeke looked directly at Sasha for the first time. "No. Fuck, no — absolutely not. No one ever believes a word I say, do they? I've said over and over that I'm never going anywhere and it's like I'm not even talking, is it? Nothing I say or do makes a fucking bit of difference around here!" He threw his cigarette butt on the ground.

Sasha's eyes had gotten quite round. He said, "You do make a difference. You make a hell of a lot of difference."

"I don't think so. Hey, let's add it up...I'm just a controlling jerk who's abusing him and exploiting him. I'm sleeping around on him, I can't be trusted to go anywhere or do anything without falling for the first woman I run into, I'm going to bail on him if it all gets too hard for me! The facts don't count, it's just what he believes — "

"I think ---"

"I tell him and tell him and it never sinks in! And I've been patient, you have no idea, no fucking idea...I reminded myself he has issues, I waited for it to get better, I ignored when he acted like — like he acted — and you know, maybe I have issues about the aliens, maybe I am irrational, but I guess my issues aren't to be tolerated! There's only room for his issues around here!"

"Zeke."

"I go crazy every time I think about him talking to another human being without me there to run interference but if I act controlling then I'm the crazy bastard, for him it's just expected that I understand and ignore it but I can't keep doing it, you hear me? I can't even fucking think, he's taken my ability to think and I'm — I'm — "

Sobbing, was what he was. He was staring helplessly at Sasha and sobbing and Sasha just put his arms around him without a word. Zeke couldn't bring himself to move away or shrug him off. Nor could he stop. He rested his head on Sasha's shoulder and let the grief just pour out of him.

"I f-feel so out of c-control — "

"I know, I know..." Sasha said, using the exact same voice he'd been using on Casey a little while ago.

"I try — try so hard but no m-matter what I do I can't get my head — around things — "

Sasha mummered some nonsense like, "Oh, baby, my poor baby, it's okay just let it out," things that usually would have Zeke on the point of nausea but this time it just felt good to hear and now that he had started he couldn't stop, but Sasha didn't seem to mind. He just held Zeke and waited until the torrent had dried to a trickle.

When Zeke felt his self-consciousness returning he moved back stiffly, trying to cover by getting a cigarette started...but his hands shook too badly. Sasha took the pack from him and lit the cigarette for him — then one for himself.

That was enough to jar Zeke out of his general wretchedness. "You're fucking kidding," he said.

"I used to smoke for a while when I was about twenty. I still crave it sometimes."

Zeke felt the return of the ability to smile. "Maybe you shouldn't then."

"It seems like the right time." Sasha shrugged, smiled back, and inhaled deeply. He immediately started coughing as though his lungs were trying to escape out his mouth.

Zeke grinned...but just for a moment. The wretchedness had abated slightly, but he was still feeling disconsolate as he said, "This alien thing fucked us over pretty good, Sasha."

"You're telling me."

"I've been walking about trying to act like it wasn't the main deal — and I guess I turned it into the main deal."

Sasha just listened, taking a more conservative drag on his cigarette.

"Casey's always been a lot braver than I am when it comes to talking about it," Zeke admitted. "He's a lot braver than me, period."

"You really think that?"

"Yeah, don't you think so?"

"I know he's brave," Sasha said gently. "But so are you."

Zeke shook his head. "You should have seen him back then. Everyone — and I mean everyone just wanted to shut up and pretend it never happened and there he was going around mouthing off to everyone in sight. I had no choice but to back him up, and Stokely did too. Stan and Delilah couldn't exactly deny it but they tried. None of us would ever have started it — and I was supposed to be the rebel. Stokely and I, we were the rebels, not Casey. But when it comes down to it I guess I still wanted to be popular and for my parents to like me."

"I think that's pretty normal," Sasha said. "And of course Casey wants that too."

"But he didn't want it so much that he clammed up." Zeke stamped out his cigarette unfinished, finding that it wasn't tasting very good. His head had filled up with snot again too. "I'm in awe of him, really — but I'm still terrified of what's going to happen."

"I think Dr. Yves can be trusted."

"I hope so — but you know telling her about aliens isn't going to fix everything."

Sasha drew a breath — and said nothing.

Zeke lowered his head. "I think I know what you were going to tell me today...in the kitchen there when I walked in on you and Casey."

"What was I going to tell you?"

"That Casey and I...we shouldn't have any sex."

"I was afraid I was going to have to convince you," Sasha said.

"Yesterday, you would have had to. Today..." Incredibly, Zeke's throat was aching with yet more tears. He forced himself to continue. "Last night we were...oh, shit, I can't even explain what it is, it's so confused and...." and I felt so good and I thought he felt good but then I looked at him today and he looks ill and he flinched from me, he actually was afraid of me like I had hurt him. No, I did hurt him... "and I'm afraid that Roy did something terrible to him the last time they were together. Or maybe a whole bunch of times, I don't know. All I know is he absolutely refuses to talk about it and I'm helping him be in denial about it...when he's around me my brain just..." Zeke hesitated. This was tough to admit. "My brain switches off. I don't know if I can do this."

"He'll sleep with me in my bed for a while."

Zeke laughed, unamused. "Sasha, there are hours and hours of the day when you're not around."

"So what are you saying? That you, Zeke Tyler, don't have the will to resist? That you're led around by your cock?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying." Sasha began to speak but Zeke held up his hand. "I'm going to try my best. That's all I can do."

"Wasn't there some philosopher who said ‘There is no try...just do or not'?"

"Um...I think that was Yoda."

"Okay, then Yoda had a point."

"I guess," Zeke sighed, and shivered, feeling the dampness in the air keenly now in the aftermath of his sobbing fit. "Guess I'd better go in and break the news to him...how the fuck am I going to do this? I'm going to be stuck in this apartment studying for the next two weeks."

Sasha tilted his head, thinking. "Allison would be thrilled to pieces if Casey came home early for Christmas."

"I don't know..."

"He doesn't have to go right now but he could go a little earlier than you. I think...I think some time apart will be good for you two. I'm talking about a week, tops. Think about it, Zeke."

Zeke thought about it.

As he trudged down the stairs with Sasha at his shoulder, Zeke felt certain that his mind had finally suffered a critical systems failure; it was resisting all attempts to reboot. He tiptoed to the door of Sasha's room and peered in. Casey was lying back against several pillows, his body limp, his eyes closed — but he dragged them open and looked at Zeke. He slurred, "You...leaving?"

Zeke came into the room and once again sat down on the bed beside Casey. He sensed that Sasha was somewhere behind him, just out of sight, possibly listening to make sure that Zeke didn't backpedal. He would just have to do his best to ignore Sasha's presence. Taking Casey's hand, he peered directly into the face of fear and said, "No, Case. I'm not leaving you. I promised and I meant that."

"You're...pissed off."

Zeke shook his head. "I was, yes...but I was wrong. You did what you had to do. And you could have lied about what you did but you were honest, and I'm...grateful for that."

Casey blinked heavily, opening and closing his eyes several times. "Really tired," he whispered. "Drugs."

"I know."

"Want to say stuff." Casey lifted his hand with Zeke's wrapped around it and held it against his chest. "So sorry...'bout Winona."

"Don't worry about that."

"But...what's going to happen now?"

"As far as Dr. Yves goes, we can only wait and see. I'll study for exams, you'll go see her a few more times and we'll see — but Case, I'm begging you now...please don't tell her that you...you hit Winona. I know you're not dangerous, but Dr. Yves doesn't."

Casey squeezed Zeke's hand, hard. It hardly need be said that if Dr. Yves was thinking he needed to be hospitalized, she might have good reason. "Kay," he said.

"There's something else, Case. It isn't easy, just...listen until I'm finished, okay?"

"Okay."

"I think...I think — fuck, this is hard — I think that we should temporarily stop having sex."

Zeke waited for the spate of ugly words. Nothing happened. He dared a glance down at Casey's face. He thought he saw resignation, or maybe just shock, and he thought Thank fucking god for Xanax.

"We'll still live together," he went on, "but I'd like you to sleep with Sasha — not because I don't want you around, but because I want you around too much. If we're sharing a bed, it won't work — and again, it will be temporary, we can put a deadline on it. What do you think?"

Casey whispered, "Think you want to...punish me."

"I knew you would think that, Case, but it isn't true. I don't know how else to say it. I want to be with you and be happy — that's why I'm suggesting this. I'm not punishing you...I want you to just take some time to build up your strength again. Okay?"

Drugged or not, Casey was still capable of some temper. "Sounds like I don't have a choice...you've already made up your mind."

"Or we can continue just as we are," Zeke retorted, "and Sasha will have surveillance teams watching us around the clock. Please, I'm begging you, can we try this my way?"

Casey closed his eyes. Zeke held his breath, feeling himself poised for another round of chaos. Then, to his utter astonishment and gratitude, Casey nodded.

"I...thank you," Zeke forced himself to say. "And...there's one more thing..."

"What?" Casey replied tiredly, eyes still closed.

"I think we should take Dr. Yves' advice."

"What d'you mean?"

"I need to be here almost until Christmas but you don't, Case. I think...I think it would be good for us to be...to be apart for a few days. We need to be able to show Dr. Yves and Dr. Chakri how you've been making progress, you know?"

Casey went still. Very still, so much that Zeke feared he had granted the Xanax far too much power a moment ago. It was the way that Casey had actually agreed to going without sex that made Zeke lose his head and demand more — so now was the time for some severe honesty.

Zeke admitted, "It isn't easy — for me — to be around you without touching you, Case."

It was possible for a person's eyes to be both sleepy and terrified, Zeke now discovered as Casey looked at him. But a Zeke's words, the terror seemed to fade slightly, mutating into a kind of surprise. "R-really?"

"Really...I'm not that strong, every time I look at you...I lose control so...so, please do this...for me."

Casey didn't seem to be breathing at all. "Do what...what you...want me to do...?"

"Your parents would love to have you home early for Christmas. I'll just show up a bit later, after my exams are done."

"You'll s-still come?"

"Yes, of course. I promise."

Casey closed his eyes and was silent, maybe thinking about it, maybe drifting near sleep, Zeke didn't know which. Suddenly, Casey said, "How long?"

"How long what?"

"How long no sex?"

"I — wasn't thinking of a specific time span." A tear escaped from under Casey's lids, and Zeke quickly added, "One month."

"Can we kiss?"

Zeke hesitated. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"What about hugging?"

"Hugging...okay. Basically, anything non-sexual we can do."

Casey said, his voice devoid of emotion, "Basically...non-sexual..."

Zeke saw the lids lower and raise slowly, loosing moisture in the process. Perhaps he wasn't actually crying — or if he was, his benumbed state prevented him from really participating in it.

"I...didn't think..." Casey mumbled. The rest was inaudible.

"What?" Zeke asked.

"...never thought I'd...be this..."

"How's that?"

"I never wanted to be a person who hits other people...makes people bleed...makes you s-scared..." The volume of tears increased slightly. "I wasn't going to be this."

"It's okay, Case..."

"...but I am." Casey peered up at Zeke, blinking away saline. "I thought she was going to do something to me." His gaze shifted to behind Zeke, and Zeke apprehended that Sasha was there, standing at his back. "Same as Dr. Chakri."

"What would she do?" Zeke whispered, afraid to move or even breathe lest he break the spell of Casey talking, saying things that he probably would never have said if he weren't almost comatose.

"Go inside me...make me one of them...take you, make you one of th- them..." Casey blinked again, except this time he didn't finish. His eyes were closed and he couldn't seem to get them open again. "Everyone...have to...stop her...not safe..."

Zeke sat back in disappointment. He looked over his shoulder at Sasha, who opened his mouth to speak — just as Casey's faint voice resumed and said that which was completely unprecedented. "...do it to me...like Janice..."

Zeke flung up a hand to stop Sasha from speaking. "Like Janice?" he whispered, almost inaudibly.

"...Roy said...we need to be family...just what we need and sh-she was there...in the...the room...said no but — but Roy wanted — she was there f-for me...get me this time...he said no limits but never thought he'd...want that. I was-s on the...the bed and they were both there...an' then Roy was gone and it was-s just her all her all around me and she made me nothing...and it felt s-so good...why'd she...she didn't want me, I just wanted to stop and rest and she didn't want me..."

"Oh, god," Sasha declared under his breath. "I'll fucking rip that fucking motherfucker's — "

"Shush!" Zeke hissed. He saw that Casey's eyes were half-open again, struggling against the tide of medicated calm. "It's okay, Case," he said softly. "You can sleep."

"Not okay," breathed Casey. "She might come...gotta watch..."

"She won't come. Winona won't come, she's never coming back here, Case, okay? It's perfectly safe...go to sleep...go ahead and sleep..."

Moments later, when he was sure that Casey was out, Zeke rested the back of his hand against Casey's cheek and stroked it, glorying in the sensation of Casey's skin — because he might not be feeling it again for a while. "Thank you," he said, so very softly that he almost couldn't hear his own voice.

He was content to be there, content not to move or really exercise his brain. But there was movement behind and around him; at length, something dropped in his lap. He looked down, saw a flat, rectangular package wrapped in brown paper.

"What's this?"

"Your birthday present."

Zeke frowned up at Sasha. "This can wait, I'm sure."

"No...I don't think it can." Sasha folded his arms.

The package had a rustic sort of elegance. Zeke took it and ripped off the paper.

It was a framed black and white photo...of him. It had to have been taken during the past week when he was up to his neck in books and paper-writing; he was asleep, half-reclined in bed with his back against a pillow. His face was tense, exhaustion written all over him despite unconsciousness. There were a number of library books lying in the foreground and one open on his lap. He was wearing pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, and his hair was tousled and wet from a recent shower. Zeke remembered exactly which night this had been. It was Tuesday, and they had just finished a lengthy session of lovemaking shortly before the picture was taken.

Casey was in the picture too, with his back more or less to the camera. He was naked but with only his upper half visible; in frame, there was just the faintest suggestion of the curve of his buttocks as he laid on his side, his head against Zeke's shoulder and his hand splayed open on Zeke's chest. It was far too intimate, not to mention bizarre and slightly creepy to know that Casey had set this up after Zeke fell asleep, but it was also unbelievably arousing.

"Fuck," Zeke said, feeling heat in his face. "How did he do this?"

"With a timer and a tripod, I should imagine."

"But where did the — I didn't think he owned a camera."

"He didn't. Charly gave it to him."

Zeke felt like he'd been sandbagged all over again. "When?"

"On Tuesday...Stan gave it to Stokely and Stokely gave it to him."

"But how and when?"

Sasha looked exasperated. "When I called Charly to apologize about Thanksgiving, she wanted to talk to Casey. I think she wanted to give the camera to him at her house that day...but she didn't get the chance."

"And I suppose you think she doesn't have an ulterior motive for that?"

"I don't think anything," Sasha replied lightly.

"And you're hiding the camera in your closet too."

"Yup."

"Anything else you're hiding for him?"

Sasha blinked several times.

"Nothing that it's my place to tell," he answered, and gestured for Zeke to follow him out of the room. Just outside, he added, "I'm amazed he took it so well."

"You were listening in the whole time?"

"Of course. Saved you having to give me a recap later, didn't it?"

"Whatever...anyway, I'm not sure he took it well. He just took it quietly."

"You have a point." Sasha rubbed his face. "I'm going to see if I can get some time off so I can go to Herrington with him."

Zeke sighed in relief. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. I may just get another ‘you can go to Herrington or you can keep your job' ultimatum and if I do, I'm going to have to keep my job." Sasha met Zeke's eyes. "There are limits to what we can give."

"I know," Zeke said. What he wasn't so sure of, however, was where his own limits would turn out to be.


	6. Chapter 6

It's pretty much common knowledge that there's a spectrum of feeling and opinion about Christmas. Towards one end are people who are completely indifferent, and beyond that there are the people who hate it outright...you know, because it's commercial, it's a disgusting excess of everything, and let's not forget it's a crock of shit because everyone talks about the spirit and the love and the blah blah blah but then as soon as the 25th of December is done, they go right back to being self-centred, destructive jerks. Oh, and there's no such thing as miracles.

At the other end...there's me. It's a no-brainer, I suppose, what with all the food and the shopping and the hokey music. Right up my alley, huh? But that doesn't cover all the reasons that I love Christmas, not by a long shot.

It's like this: You turn a corner in December and suddenly you hear people using what are really unpopular words. I'm talking about love, peace, sharing and compassion; these words that normally cause people to scowl and make gagging noises are in vogue for a few weeks. And hey, I'm okay with short-term excess. I like that it's acceptable at Christmas to make strange dishes that never get cooked or eaten the rest of the year, things like chestnut soup, trees made out of oranges, houses made out of candy, jelly rolls made to look like trees...or that bizarre item called Christmas pudding in deference to its British roots, nevermind that for the rest of the year "pudding" will refer to some goo that comes in a plastic cup with a peel- back lid. And then on top of all this you get to absolutely festoon your home with lights, shop to the point of bankruptcy and wear clothing covered in gold and silver sparkles. The whole thing's so totally over the top. It's like people turn gay for a few weeks.

Confession time. These last few years I have begun to edge a bit towards the Grinch end of the Christmas spectrum. I always had someone --- friends, usually — to share the day with, but there was nothing that could soften that moment when I woke up alone in my small apartment on Christmas morning. Because it was just me and I didn't have a lot of space, I usually didn't bother with a full-sized tree; I have one of those apartment-sized table-top trees, and while there would be several parcels underneath it they were mostly gifts that I was giving rather than receiving. I'm not greedy but this did remind me of something about myself that I didn't like to think about. So I would step out into the kitchen, make myself some coffee, spin some Christmas tunes from Dean Martin or Tony Bennet, and contemplate the morning. I was one of those Whos from Whoville, bravely singing even though Christmas had been stolen.

It's true that the magic of Christmas mostly dies when you go from kid to grownup. But it gets absolutely stomped on for all time when you go from being straight to gay and you're Sasha Johansson...son of Walter and Doris, born and raised in Butler Lake, Wisconsin. Population 6,719, last time I checked.

Not that I was ever really straight. No, the only way that word applied to me was in my parents' heads. And one day shortly after I turned nineteen I just smashed that little illusion and now they don't have a son anymore.

C'ést la vie, right?

Where was I? Oh, yeah...how I've tried hard to be good to Christmas even though Christmas hasn't been good to me for a while now. Last year sucked spectacularly, in fact. I was on the downside of a brief dating period with this guy named Carl, not quite ready to admit that it was time to say goodbye. I spent Christmas Day with him and his family — God, there's twenty-four hours of my life that I'll never get back — and by the end, I knew I had to "return" him, as it were. I did the deed, most appropriately, on Boxing Day, and after a week of moping over the lack of decent, datable guys in Cincinnati, I decided to drop in at Roy's on New Year's Eve.

You see in movies or read in books about a person getting a wake-up call and changing completely but I never really believed in it until that night. It wasn't just a wake-up call for me either; it was more like my eyes were yanked open and pinned with wire hooks, à la Clockwork Orange. I had long suspected that Roy wasn't a nice person, but it was so obvious that night that I felt evil just for admitting to an acquaintance with him, never mind having been his friend.

For a start, when I got to Roy's apartment I was most distressed to discover that Casey was there. He was supposed to be in Herrington; he had not been home for over a year, including last Christmas, and I had accompanied him to the train station this time to make sure he spent the holidays with his own family. But here he was, back in Roy's apartment.

That was depressing enough, but there was something even worse going on: My kitten had crashed. I'm not talking about a nice, relaxing state of unconsciousness; I'm talking he had just run headlong into something bad and hard and it wrecked him. He was a catastrophe. I don't know what Roy had been doing or saying to him, but he basically spent the entire night hiding in Roy's bedroom. He wouldn't come out no matter what I did, and believe me, I tried.

All the while, there was a party happening around him; it was Roy's and my mutual friends, people who were part of Roy's secret, gay life. As you might guess, this was not a lot of people, but Roy had invited the few, and they brought their gay friends, and they brought their gay friends...you get the picture. The whole thing got kind of precious and rowdy at the same time. Back then — I would even say right up until that day — something like this was my idea of a great time. And yet I spent most of the night in Roy's bedroom trying to coax Casey out. Of course Roy didn't give a flying fuck. When I tried to enlist him to help — because Casey would do anything he asked back then — he just shrugged and didn't have much to say. He got very drunk that night too, I remember, and at some point he started going on and on about how he'd been through the most horrible time having to get engaged to Janice and then almost dropping dead from a heart attack when Casey showed up at his parents' house.

Eventually, although not that night, I learned that Casey had come out to his own parents and that it hadn't gone well. Poor kitten...but there's never been much doubt that his parents still love him. Gay or not, they still want him around.

I think I need to explain about my family and Christmas.

It was always a huge deal at our house. There was the usual stuff...the decorating and the baking and the dinner, and there was always a mountain of gifts. That's because I have two sisters and a brother, and we all liked to give each other more than one gift — not to mention the complicated system of reciprocity among our aunts, uncles, cousins, friends. On Christmas morning it would take us two hours or more to get through them all and we would be up to our armpits in wrapping paper.

Of course, booze was a huge part of the holiday, too. Now, I have nothing against enjoying a fine wine or a splash of Bailey's in my coffee on Christmas morning but, compared to my father and his family, I'm nearly a teetotaler. When I was a teenager, though, Christmas Day didn't feel festive to me unless someone cut themselves open with a carving knife, or my dad and one or more uncles ended up swinging fists at each other, slipping and staggering and missing badly out on the snow-blanketed front lawn. It's not that my dad's an alcoholic, mind you, not as I understand the definition. I guess you would say alcohol is just a part of his culture; it could be the culture of the white male working class, or it just could be the culture of the Johanssons...or it just could be him. My oldest memories confirm it; most nights a week he would have a few beers, and sometimes more than a few. It was — and probably still is — his only real entertainment, going to a bar and shooting the breeze with some guys from the garage. It was unfortunate that Christmas gave him and my uncles an excuse to open the floodgates and drink to excess, but hey...'tis the time of year for everyone to get plastered, right?

Anyway, even if every year there would be some kind of unpleasantness, the rest of us just went about our business of stuffing our faces and playing with our toys. Families fight, I understand that. God, do I ever understand that — but there are some things that just can't be forgiven, as it happens. My Uncle Ted regularly stole small-to-medium sums of money from my father — they were partners in the auto-repair business — and my father always managed to brush off those little indiscretions after a shouting match, some fisticuffs and maybe a month or so of the silent treatment. What I have done can never be brushed off or forgiven.

Well, I guess it's too late to make a long story short. Just in case it isn't obvious already, I am no longer welcome in my father's home, for Christmas or for any other circumstance.

Perhaps it's understandable that I was heading towards solitary Grinchiness for a while but now, thank God, I'm on my way back to Whoville. I'm actually looking forward to Christmas this year because, for the first time in eight years, I have a real family and I will be spending it with them. I am going to stay with the Connors over Christmas, as is Zeke — so we will all have Christmas together. I suspect that Christmas has always been of reasonable importance to Casey and his parents but this one is huge. Even two weeks away and from halfway across the country, I can sense Allison revving up to make this Christmas, their first all together in three years, as perfect as possible. I even think Casey is looking forward to it — as much as he is able to look forward to anything these days.

Whenever I think about Roy, I get so mad I could spit bullets. I now have in my possession some very ugly images of what went on between him and Casey in that hotel room back in August but I don't know what to do with them and neither does Zeke. We've talked about this briefly, when we were absolutely certain that Casey wouldn't hear us, but the pathetic truth is that we don't know what to do and so we're falling back on doing nothing for the time being. We don't know exactly how far it went, or what Janice's real level of participation was. Oh, I don't excuse Janice for anything, far from it, but for my money Roy is the one most responsible for what happened. As far as I'm concerned, his villainy far outweighs hers — a point that Casey seems determined to overlook, for some reason. I've watched him put all of his rage and fear on Winona, or any other convenient female, and I know there's a lot more going on in his head than the little bit that he let slip to us on the night of Zeke's birthday party. I keep replaying it in my head and near as I can figure Roy pressured Casey into doing something sexual with Janice but the part where she "rejected" him? I just don't get that.

Well, there's a lot about it that I just don't get. Casey wasn't exactly clear when he told us about it, and I don't dare press him about it. For starters, he doesn't seem to remember that he said anything. Or he does remember and he's decided to pretend that he doesn't. Either way, I feel that he's on the edge of a very scary, very dangerous cliff and right now I'm all about just trying to help him keep his balance so we can enjoy our Christmas. Just a minor miracle, that's all I'm asking.

Don't tell me there aren't miracles. I'm not particularly religious, but I know that sometimes things happen that seem to defy reason. For example, it's pretty miraculous that I haven't acted on my impulse to do Roy some serious harm. I have extremely vivid fantasies about calling him up to give him a piece of my mind...or even better, visiting him and giving him a piece of my fists. I don't think it would be so impractical to take a brief detour when we land in Cincinnati, go to his house and beat the crap out of him. I've never started a fight in my life, but for him I would make an exception. Anyone who thinks I'm not capable of it should try being the swishy teenaged son of a mechanic in small-town Wisconsin.

I'm not stupid, by the way. I know who I'm really mad at. I'll never forgive myself for just standing by the way I did before. I let someone be destroyed right in front of my eyes — or perhaps I'm exaggerating? Sure, I do that, and of course Casey isn't destroyed just yet. What I'm trying to say is I feel terribly responsible. I watched Roy get completely obsessed with Casey, to the point that Casey stopped being a person to him. I think Casey became like a symbol of everything Roy wanted and couldn't have — hell, I dunno, I'm not the abstract thinker that Zeke is, but guess what? I've watched even Zeke with that masterful brain of his getting gradually just as obsessed as Roy. I've watched him lose all perspective. Don't ask me why. My kitten is damn cute, make no mistake, but I really don't know what it is that he does to these guys. I would almost consider having sex with him to find out except that thought is only slightly less abhorrent to me than the idea of having sex with my brother. All I know is, Casey has a way of making people go nuts. I mean, fuck, I'm not in love with him but I do seem to spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about him.

Or so I've been told.

 

It is the Saturday before Casey and I are to leave for Herrington, and Jerry is taking me out for brunch. I am going with a sinking heart.

We have seen each other at work, of course. Every day he asks how I am and how Casey and Zeke are, which is all we have time for because Sojourn is even busier than usual; on any night throughout the year the kitchen exists in a state of barely controlled mayhem but right now, with it being the holiday season, it's absolute chaos. We're lucky — cooks, waiters, bus people, all of us — if we can get five minutes to catch our breath. And during every one of those occasional five minute interludes, Jerry has managed to pull me aside and ask me if he and I can get together...once, twice, three times I refused, not because I don't want to see him but because I feel the need to be at home as much as possible.

Finally after the fourth such request I gave in, on the condition that we limit our outing to two hours. Zeke said it: In any given day, there is already a lot of time when I am not around. What makes it even worse now is that he's in the apartment all day studying, except when he has an exam to write or needs to go up to the roof to pollute his lungs. I thought I heard him mention something about spending his days at the library...but I'm guessing that Casey begged him not to do that. So even though Casey is sleeping with me in my bed, he and Zeke are still in constant and close proximity. The past five days have been relatively uneventful, but I've observed so many complicated, soulful stares passing back and forth between those two that I can take nothing for granted.

The mood around our apartment is best described as "surreal" — but "deceptively peaceful" works just as well. When Casey awoke from his stupour the morning after Zeke's party, I was bracing myself for total meltdown...but it didn't happen. I don't know if it was the drugs or just shock, but for an entire day he was withdrawn, sad, even bewildered — and compliant, too...He ate when he was told to, he did and went where he was told. That was Monday and so he had an appointment with Yves; he went into her office without so much as a tremor or twitch and came back out with the same flat, dulled expression. In fact, he was so much like he was in the early hospital days, I was terrified that I'd done a number on him by feeding him that chemical cocktail the night before. And yet his mind was obviously still working. He remembered things, he responded to direct questions, he was clear about where he was to sleep and what he was not to be allowed. He didn't make a single attempt to wear down Zeke's resolve. He went to bed, and, as far as I know, he slept.

Then he woke me up in the wee hours of the morning with the mother of all panic attacks. I'm not exaggerating here. I was very close to having a fit of my own, even though I knew what this was and that it couldn't kill him. I gave him another one of the precious Xanax, but it must have been too late for it because it didn't seem to work. It got to the point that he was gasping and turning blue and I was losing my mind, afraid to give him another because of all the other drugs in his system.

Just when I was ready to call 911, Zeke came to my rescue. At some point the commotion must have gotten loud enough to wake him; he rushed in with all due urgency and then, in an amazing display of that poise that I so admire, sat down on the bed and calmly put his arms around Casey. He remained calm even as Casey tried to burrow under his skin and I paced back and forth with my finger hovering over the number "nine". When Casey recovered enough to gasp out that he couldn't breathe, Zeke contradicted him with cool, Vulcan logic: "Yes, you can breathe, Case, you're breathing way too much actually." Then he suggested that I find him a paper bag. Great idea, I don't know why I didn't think of that, too bad there were no paper bags in the house. Anyway, it seemed that Zeke had managed, all on his own, to calm Casey enough to give the Xanax a chance. Forty-five minutes later Casey was unconscious; Zeke and I crashed immediately after, the three of us once again sharing my bed.

The next morning Casey was in another mode altogether. It was like he suddenly woke up and thought about what he had done, and he said something to Zeke that makes me ache every time I think about it: "Now tell me I'm not so scary." He was simply horrified at himself, and still is.

For my own part, I can honestly say that I'm not appalled or horrified. Dismayed that he felt driven to that particular act and worried that it will happen again? Absolutely. I'm know I'm not objective, of course, but I also know that my kitten is a kind, sweet, generous person who's just a bit self-centred and mixed-up right now. He can't bear the idea that he hit someone hard enough to make them bleed. All right, yes, he hated her and I didn't like her very much myself — but he knows she didn't deserve that. She didn't do a single thing to provoke it and he's fortunate that she was willing to cut her losses and just walk away.

It would be wonderful if I could trust that something like that won't happen again, that he won't just snap all of a sudden and jump on someone else. I'm not going to judge him the way that he's judging himself, but I will say this: Some of the things he's done lately scare the hell out of me. I still can't believe that he went so far as to make a pass at a complete stranger who just happened to invite him into his car. And believe it or not, my conscience is fine with not telling Zeke about that...as long as it's an isolated incident. The way I see it, that whole episode could have ended very badly; that it didn't is kind of a miracle in its own right, and I hope that he scared himself enough never to try a stunt like that again.

As for him attacking Winona — I keep telling myself that he was under duress. Duress that was totally in his own head and nowhere else, but still duress. I suppose that sooner or later I will insist that he talk about what happened. That's my job, right, making people talk? But for now, I don't want to push him too much. There's a quietness that comes over him at times, a stillness that scares me. I have a strong sense that he's ready to come apart.

And it's not that I don't have faith in him. I do, but it's faith in the real Casey — not the boy who rages and acts considerably less than sane at times. The real Casey has begged repeatedly for forgiveness from both of us for everything that happened. The real Casey takes his Paxil and his Klonopin and goes to his appointments. He has been writing constantly, doing his "homework" for Yves, taking extra long walks — and the plan is that in January we will look into a more structured exercise program. He hasn't asked for a Xanax, although I do seem to catch him frequently looking at me like a Texas rancher eying up a particularly juicy tenderloin.

Yeah, he's desperate to change...and he's just desperate. If you consider the fact that he is currently living with some of his worst fears and is still functioning, I guess he's doing brilliantly. However, he also happens to be a complete mess from morning until night, one moment clingy and helpless and the next just unbelievably difficult. He has no trouble falling asleep these days, but he's wakened me several times sobbing or hyperventilating in his sleep, often both; I'll hold him and pet him until he settles down and I don't believe he has any memory of what he was dreaming. When he's awake he has frequent outbursts of anger and if anyone but me or Zeke comes within five feet of him, he starts getting a bit of a demented look, not too different from the crazy face he wore when he went after Winona. He's not really fit for social interaction of any kind, apart from with those of us who know and understand and can handle it.

What really breaks my heart is the fact that he's in this tailspin even at the same time that he's trying harder than ever. He exists in a state of contradiction; every day he's doing so many things to help himself and yet, all the while, he believes that he is doomed. He acts like he understands the reasons for the one-month prohibition against sex with Zeke, and still he goes south on me on a regular basis; he'll start talking all sorts of nonsense about how Zeke must think this and feel that, how Zeke is punishing him and can't possibly want to be with him after what he did. I'll tell him to just ask Zeke because it seems like the thing to do — but it is painful to watch him seek out Zeke over and over for reassurance while being denied the things that, to him, are actually reassuring.

It's painful in a whole other way to see Zeke trying to give Casey some comfort while constantly checking back with me to see if whatever touching he's doing is okay. Sometimes when I'm watching them, Zeke will get angry with me and start acting rebellious, like he's going to just do whatever he thinks is appropriate. He always stops just short of sexual intimacy but all the while he'll be giving me glares... as if I would try to stop him from stroking or hugging Casey, or giving him an actual kiss. As if I could possibly think there's anything wrong with that.

So this is what I've been reduced to: I am have become an accomplished pest, a person who runs interference and monitors continually for any sign of hanky- panky. It's stupid, because there are still many hours where it's just the two of them and I must simply trust in Zeke's intentions. Which I do. I even trust his will, but the problem with Zeke's will is, it's much too big for its own britches. It took complete mental and physical exhaustion, and then some, for Zeke to admit that his will was beaten — and hey, all it took was a cigarette and a few hours sleep and that will was mighty again, ready to resume being its own worst enemy. As for my kitten...I'm afraid that he can't be trusted to use that one tiny little word that he seems to have so much problem with. Only in the context of sex, of course; the rest of the time he's been fairly mouthy.

Now where am I?

Oh, yes. I'm having brunch with Jerry. He has taken me to Le Paris, a place we've been to a few times. It's a café very much in an old Parisian style, where one can get wonderful things like steak tartare, salmon mousse, cheese soufflée and crème brulée any day of the week. They also do wonderful brunches on Saturdays and Sundays, which is why we are here now. This is the first time I've seen Jerry outside work since that terrible night, nearly a week ago now. As far as I'm concerned Casey has to be my priority at all times, so I have decided that I am not going to apologize for asking Jerry to leave that night. He just didn't belong there.

Jerry doesn't say much until we have our juice and coffee. "How's it going?" he begins, and I know he's not just making conversation. He really does care.

"It's okay," I say. "Things are okay."

"Really?"

"Well...no. But we haven't had anymore, um...situations like last time."

"I'm glad to hear it." Jerry drinks some coffee, then says, "Should I ask what Casey was talking about? I mean, with that thing about aliens?"

I don't know why I am surprised. After all, Casey spilled the beans to more than one person within the span of a few days — and it's not really a secret, anyone could look it up so there's no point in denying it. On the other hand, the last thing Casey needs is more interest in the alien story, from anyone. We're still waiting — and dreading — to see what Dr. Yves is going to do with it.

I shrug, trying to be casual. "Probably not."

"I can't believe he lashed out like that. He doesn't...I mean, he isn't usually...like that, is he?"

"No," I grit. "He's not."

"Oh...I mean...good."

I don't know what I should say given that Jerry probably thinks Casey is just a little bit insane. There's not much to be done about it; I trust Jerry not to do or say anything to hurt Casey — intentionally, at least. The problem is, not hurting Casey is a thorny business. It can happen despite your best efforts.

In any case, Jerry is much too distracted by what he is about to say to discuss Casey's hallucinations any further. He blurts out, "Sasha, do you think we should keep seeing each other?"

I guess I knew this was coming. Even at the beginning of our relationship when he asked me to join him for breakfast or dinner or a movie, I said no as often as I said yes. And whenever we do something together, I tend to talk non-stop about Casey and Zeke and their problems. In the past several weeks it's gotten worse; if I am being dumped, I can't blame him and I can't promise that things will be any different, not in the short term.

As my objective at all times in relationships is to behave with integrity, I answer him honestly. "I don't know," I say.

He probably hoped that I would protest immediately and desperately that we had to stay together; when I don't, he looks wretched.

"I'm sorry," I add. "But you know what I'm dealing with right now. It isn't fair to you, I know that...I know you think I'm too wrapped up in Casey's life and I'm sorry, babe, I really am, but this is something I need to do until he's better."

Jerry tilts his head up towards the ceiling and takes a deep breath. Then, lowering his gaze, he replies, "I know if it were my brother or sister, or God forbid, my mom...I would want to take care of them, but Sasha — "

"Zeke and Casey are my family...and it will get better."

He folds his hands and rests them on top of the table. "You're probably going to rip my head off for saying this..."

"Then don't say it," I hiss.

His voice drops to a near whisper. "I care about Casey too, Sasha, and up until a couple of weeks ago I would have agreed with you completely but now I'm not so sure."

"That's a funny way of showing how you care."

"What, so I'm supposed to just believe that everything's going to be okay? I mean...at first I thought he was just depressed or something like that but I'm afraid he really needs serious help."

"He has serious help. He has a lot of serious help, thank you very much. What do you think, that Zeke and I have been trying to cure him with hugs and chocolate?" Oh, I am furious. Jerry doesn't know Casey. He doesn't know his strength, his intelligence and determination. If I were Casey, I would probably have retreated to an asylum a long time ago.

I am just about to explain to Jerry that he is an ignorant boob when he speaks again. "I'm sorry," he sighs. "I know I'm out of line."

"Yes. You are."

"I didn't want to talk about Casey...because he's not the real issue."

"Oh yeah? What is, then?"

Jerry cracks a smile but it is brittle and falls apart quickly on him. "You don't love me. I love you but you don't love me.

In a word...shit. Just...shit. His painful honesty gets me not-angry in a hurry. I feel obligated to try to say something to help his self-esteem. "I do love you," sounds pretty good.

"But you're not in love with me."

And for some reason, I am outraged all over again. I open my mouth with absolutely no idea of what I'm going to say, but he cuts me off.

"I'm not making demands. It's probably not even fair of me to expect more. You said it yourself. Zeke and Casey are your family, I'm not...and that's okay, they need you, and...maybe I'd rather believe you don't have anything to give to me right now, than you just don't feel that way about me."

He stops talking and I know that I am now expected to say something meaningful. After an awkward silence, I ask, "What...what do you want to do?" And in the next moment I can't believe I have said something so completely passive and cowardly. He has asked me outright if we should continue to see each other and I put the question back in his lap. Just splendid.

So it's up to Jerry to be decisive now, and he is. He lays it out for me: "I think I'd rather end this now and just be hurt as opposed to wait and be much more hurt later."

I am overcome with an urge to plead for another chance, to say that we should think about this for a while before making a final decision. Instead, I am noble. I stammer, "I guess...that's fair to you." Then the impulse to apologize is overwhelming and I surrender to it. "I'm sorry."

Jerry shrugged. "No hard feelings, right? We gave it a whirl."

After this, our meal is a painful exercise. At the end we simply hug and part ways, promising to exchange at some point the Christmas gifts we have already bought each other. This won't be a problem, since we will still see each other almost every day.

I go home, determined to act casual. When I get there I discover that Casey has not had a thing to eat yet today; I have to bite down on the urge to yell both at him and Zeke, but on the other hand, snapping into the mode of care giver gives me something else to focus on other than the fact that I have broken up with my boyfriend. I can put all my energies into figuring out what Casey is willing to eat and making him eat it...rather than thinking about the fact that I never seem able to stay in a romantic relationship for more than a few months.

Later, I go to work and when I see Jerry it has a kind of comfort to it, the comfort of two friendly co-workers who did not part on bad terms...or maybe like we never broke up all except that I know that I am never having sex with him again.

I do my shift and head home.

Zeke is burning the midnight oil again. I go to his door, pushing it open with a tiny creak. He is alone, sitting propped up on his bed with books and notes strewn around him and he appears exhausted. And unhappy. He has been a pretty desperate character himself this week. He has been growling at me a lot, which is okay, but he's also growling at Casey and that is absolutely unacceptable.

"Everything okay?" I whisper.

"Fine," Zeke says, predictably, then winces and adds, "Except I tried to book a flight to Herrington for the nineteenth but I couldn't get one until the twenty-first."

"I told you should have done it earlier."

"You could skip the 'I told you so', Sasha."

"No, I can't. It's necessary to my self esteem." Our nightly exchange of wit now concluded, I ask, "What did he think about it?"

Zeke's face lengthens and flattens. I now recognize this as Zeke feeling exceptionally sad. "I don't know. He went in your room and shut the door. I think he's crashed."

"Hmm...and did you do the Los Angeles piece too?"

"Yeah. It's all worked out, we have a connecting flight from Cincinnati on the twenty-eighth."

I want to ask Zeke if he and Casey really and truly discussed this, or if it was just a given that Casey would accompany him. Because I have an opinion about it that is only just starting to solidify. It's a real humdinger of a problem, this L.A. trip. Initially I was convinced that there was no other real option but for Casey to go. Now...I'm having other thoughts about it. The last thing that Casey needs right now is to be alone with Zeke among strangers in a strange city, and especially when I'm not around to run interference. Plus, there will undoubtedly be times when Zeke has to leave Casey on his own, and that scares the crap out of me.

"What?" Zeke says, when I have been quiet for too long.

"Well...I'm a bit worried about him going to L.A."

Instead of getting angry right away, Zeke just looks weary. "It's a done deal, Sasha. The ticket is booked.

"We could change it if need be — "

His voice hardens. "He's coming with me and that's it."

"Think of what's best for him, Zeke — "

"I am!" he almost shouts. I make a frantic gesture with my hands and he lowers his volume to a hiss. "You know what it'll do to him if he gets left behind."

"Yeah," I admit, wishing futilely that there was an actual solution to this problem. I may believe that Casey staying home with me is the lesser of the two evils, but I don't actually know what the right decision is. It seems that Casey has already made a decision, though, and I must respect that.

Of course, if the opportunity to help him change his mind should arise, I will use it.

I am rather weary myself, a lot more than I can normally except after completing a shift. I urge Zeke to put away his books and sleep, then head to bed myself. Zeke was correct — Casey is sleeping soundly, for now anyway. It seems that the Klonopin is really helping him get rested if nothing else. I accompanied him to his follow-up appointment with Dr. Chakri on Wednesday and personally witnessed him admit to feeling a bit "less anxious" but I can't say that I've seen any miraculous results as yet...unless the Klonopin is the only thing keeping him from having a total meltdown over his general situation, in which case I love it and I think it is a drug for the ages.

When I get into bed Casey rolls over and murmurs something to me, just making sure that I am me and not some monster from outer space...or a monster from planet earth whose name is Roy, perhaps? I whisper my usual words of reassurance and within a few minutes he is still and quiet again.

When I am sure that he is sleeping, I have a nice, healthy cry.

 

The Seattle Airport is a busy place, busier than I would have expected since it's still only the 15th of December. Casey and I are sitting at our gate, waiting amidst many other travellers...men and women in business attire, families, obvious student types who have been lucky enough to get a better exam schedule than Zeke. Casey has chosen a seat away from the high density areas of the lounge but — well, like I say, it's busy and he's trying to keep an eye on every person within twenty feet of him. His entire body is vibrating.

"Kitten," I plead.

He immediately tries to stop the jittering — and Jerry says he isn't improving? There was a time when he wouldn't have responded because he would have already gone catatonic to escape from this scenario. And he sure as hell wouldn't have turned to me and snapped, as he does now, "What?"

His eyes are red. I'll forgive him for being testy. He is, after all, staring right in the face of an entire week without Zeke. I know that he saw Dr. Yves yesterday; he has reported to me that she wants him to consider this a positive learning experience. Whether or it will be or not I don't know, but I do know that Casey and Zeke could use a break from each other. Casey needs to focus for a while on not being a sex object. And Zeke — Zeke just needs some alone time.

No one has said it, but if it turns out that Casey is not going to Los Angeles they could use a practice run at being apart for a while. The three of us are still talking like Casey is going, but I am, in my heart of hearts, extremely doubtful. He needs stability and routine, not to mention having Dr. Yves and Dr. Chakri nearby. Even if every day in Los Angeles were one of Casey's good days, it would still be an incredibly difficult trip. And since Casey's good times are currently being measured in minutes or, at best, hours, it really would be the best thing for both him and Zeke if he didn't go.

Of course, getting them to agree with me on that point is another thing altogether. Even though he presented it as his idea, Zeke was really reluctant to put his stamp on this one-week trial separation until I volunteered to go to Herrington with Casey. I had to go to my boss, Oliver, and beg him for two weeks off — without pay, of course. I was terrified that he was going to invite me to resign, so I opened the floodgates and told him that a friend was very ill and needed me and to my relief Oliver said he understood, even though I'd be missing some of the busiest times of the year. He told me not to worry, he'd had a request from a local community college to place some culinary arts students with him so he could take them on for a month as his good deed for the year — but not to worry, I will be missed and my spot is secure. I am aware that I am very lucky to still have a job. The restaurant business is, as a rule, not a nice place to work. You have to fight your way up through the ranks of the line cooks and if you survive long enough to become a chef — assuming that you actually would want such a soul-destroying job — you end up a tough, scaly creature, covered in the scars of your trade and with a heart of leather to match. Somehow Oliver has risen to the top of his profession and kept his humanity and I'm profoundly grateful for it.

I have to say, I think that even the most shrivelled, soulless being would have been moved by the goodbye between Casey and Zeke this morning. God, I love these two. I'll never need to resort to watching old movies to get a fix of cheese; I have them. It's probably common knowledge that I am a suck and a romantic, but watching them part this morning was...divinely poignant. They have managed to keep their distance from each other, more or less, for two weeks but when it was time for Casey and I to catch a cab to the airport — well, they just fell off the wagon and into a dramatic, highly charged kiss. You'd have thought they were saying goodbye for the rest of their lives rather than just a week.

I didn't have the heart to break it up. As far as I'm concerned either they are meant for each other — if not meant to destroy each other. They are both incredibly gorgeous outside and totally geeky inside, although in slightly different ways. Both look like regular young men just entering full adulthood, but they are completely abnormal. Both are a couple of socially peculiar eggheads; sometimes they make me feel like an ignorant rube with those big, precocious brains they have. I know I'm no idiot but I'm just a cook, for Christ's sake.

"You okay?" I ask Casey now as we wait for a plane to take Casey a thousand miles away from safety.

He makes a noise that I have come to identify as a bitter laugh; then he lifts a hand and puts it against his mouth to hold it back. That hand is trembling too. "It's not too late," he whispers through his fingers. "We could go home and wait until Zeke's exams are done...just a few days...Mom and Dad won't mind."

"I think they would mind very much, kitten. For one thing, they probably couldn't get the tickets refunded at this point." I know this will have some impact because Casey knows how his father is about money and fears earning his fiscal disapproval. "And they miss you. They're totally excited to have you home early."

His knee has started bouncing again. I can see him thinking furiously, then he fumbles in his coat pocket and removes a folded up piece of paper. He opens it, reads through it and sighs. I can't help but glance over. It is a numbered list, titled Evidence that Zeke Is Not Going To Leave Me.

Casey sees me looking and holds the paper against his chest. "Yves and me, we did this t-together...yesterday. She s-said I should read it when I...I need to."

"Is this what you and Yves have been talking about?" I ask, seeing my opportunity. This is something that Zeke and I have been fretting about. We're afraid that Casey's new mood of disclosure will inspire him to spill the beans about his unprovoked attack on Winona. As much as I am a fan of disclosure, in this instance I agree with Zeke. I want Casey to trust his shrink and work with her but at the same time I'm terrified too. The way he's been behaving, I'll have a hard time arguing with her if she decides that Casey is tortured and dangerous as opposed to just tortured.

I think that perhaps Casey's been asked this question one too many times; he gives me a glare. "She doesn't know what to do with the — the alien thing but she thought we should focus on practical things to get me through the holidays."

"Oh...well, that's good. Anything I can help with?"

The glare softens. "Just...keep doing what you're doing."

"Which is?"

"You know --- taking care of me."

"I could do better," I say, and I know the truth of it all too well.

"No," he contradicts. "No, Sasha."

"Oh, come on, I haven't been up to snuff."

"You're awesome," he murmurs.

This little statement gets to me big time. I swallow several times and glue my eyes on some mundane signage on the wall, abandoning myself to the wonderful world of numbered gates and terminals. After a few seconds I feel under control, enough that I can turn back and jerk my head towards Casey's paper. "May I look?"

"Why?"

"I'm nosy."

He actually cracks a tiny smile. "No, really?" He hesitates, than offers the paper to me. I scan it without a word. There are fourteen points. When Casey applies himself to an assignment, he always aims for an A-plus.

1\. He told me he wouldn't leave me. Repeatedly.

2\. He hasn't left me even though I told Yves about the aliens.

3\. He still wants to have sex with me all the time.

4\. He is very protective and he can't protect me if he's not around.

5\. He hates to fail at anything.

6\. He's put up with a lot of shit from me.

7\. He changed his sexual orientation for me.

8\. He's coming to Herrington to stay with me and my parents for Christmas. (I've seen the plane ticket). He doesn't even like Herrington. He doesn't like my parents.

9\. He has told me he loves me.

10\. He thinks I'm funny. He likes to be with me.

11\. He impersonated Jimmy Stewart for me.

12\. He's willing to hold my hand in public. He never used to do that with anyone.

13\. He acts very jealous about me.

14\. He's not friends with Winona anymore.

"He impersonated Jimmy Stewart?" I say. "When did he do that?"

"Um..." Casey gets a little flushed. "Just this...one time..."

"What did he do? Like, what line from what movie?"

Casey squirms. "Something from the Philadelphia Story."

I suppose it's something very private — but I want to know, dammit! It sounds pretty fucking romantic and I want the details. However, the rules of general social politeness require that I relent. "This is pretty convincing stuff," I remark, gesturing with the paper I am holding. I see that Casey is still wracked with tremors. "Isn't it helpful?"

"No...none of it proves anything."

I open my mouth to argue but at the same moment I realize that he's right. Knowing that your lover won't leave you is a question of faith, pure and simple, and my kitten doesn't have faith in anything except all the negative ideas that he believes about himself.

"Wh-what do you th-think Zeke — Zeke's doing?" he chatters.

"Buried in his books, I'm sure."

"H-he might go to the library."

"I doubt it, kitten, but so what if he did?"

So much for the list. Casey bites his lip; I can see where he's going and it's not a good place. "He might s-see her...or she might phone him..."

Uh-oh. During the past two weeks whenever the subject of her came up, it was usually a sign that Scary Casey was about to make an appearance. And just for the record, Scary Casey doesn't scare me, not in the sense that I worry for my safety or anything. I do worry about his safety, about what he might do to himself. I can't stop thinking about what he did the last time he thought Zeke had betrayed him — driven by all that anger that he usually keeps tamped down in a tiny little box inside, he ended up running around on the streets looking for a stranger to use him. Perhaps if Zeke knew about that incident, he would realize just how mixed- up Casey is when it comes to sex, and he wouldn't feel the need to challenge me quite so much.

"What exactly do you think would happen?" I'm trying to be hyper-rational now, not that it ever works on Casey when he's like this. I know I come off pretty calm — but you can be sure that inside I am shaking, dreading that this will be the day that I fail to talk him down from his ledge.

"She'll...come over...she knows — where we live."

I can't help myself; I put an arm around him and hug him close, and don't give a damn what people think. The way I see it, touching him helps far more than any words of mine possibly could. Zeke's the one with the mega-vocabularly, after all, and even while I'll happily talk up one side of an issue and down the other, I know that there are times when it's really quite pointless. Like now. Right now, I just use my hands and my body to soothe him until he is steady enough to listen to some words.

"She's not going to come," I say then, "because Zeke isn't friends with her anymore, remember?"

"Yeah," he says, completely unconvinced.

I don't add that she probably wouldn't risk coming to our apartment since the last time she'd shown her face there he'd put a fist in it.

"Sasha...I don't want to go."

He sounds like he is being punished and I can't stand it. This voice is something he's been saving and hiding somewhere so he can pull it out and stab me through the heart right when it really counts. I must remind myself that I am not easily manipulated. I am all about the tough love.

"Well, then, you call up your parents and tell them you're not coming," I reply. I am not mean, just matter-of fact. I've developed this tone that I use at such moments. I like to think that it strikes the right balance between no-nonsense and gentle concern.

Fuck. I think his lip is actually sticking out. It's quivering too.

"Okay," I backpedal. Tough love sounds all well and good when you see it on the TV movie of the week, but it's another story when you're staring into the face of the person whom you're trying not to enable. "Why don't you call Zeke and see what he's up to?"

This makes the lip retract, at least. I notice that he carefully scans the lounge, checking on whoever might be within tentacle's reach before he pulls out his cell phone. I wonder if Yves has suggested any other strategies for dealing with these episodes. Or maybe calling Zeke is just such a strategy. I really wish I knew what Casey is saying to her...He must have told her that he and Zeke are on a strict no-sex diet, surely...but I'll just bet he hasn't told her about the incident with Janice and I wish that I could just march into Yves' office and tell her...oh, and Dr. Yves, he really shouldn't go to Los Angeles, it's a mistake, I know it is...

God, I need to stop. We're about to get on a plane and go to Ohio for the holidays. That is more than enough for us to handle at this moment. Everything else can wait, at least until I have finished eavesdropping on the conversation with Zeke.

"Hi..it's Casey...yeah...yeah...in the lounge...yeah, he's here...right next to me..."

That would be Zeke making sure I haven't abandoned my post. That boy will someday be the director of a multinational corporation, or maybe he'll just be a general. He has the mind and the personality for it...that is, if he doesn't have a heart attack first.

"Zeke...I wish I wasn't going...I know...me too..uh-huh...uh-huh..." Casey's voice drops to a whisper. "There's this lady, she doesn't look right...just not right...I can't explain it but she..."

A long pause.

"Okay," Casey says to whatever Zeke is going on about. "S-see you in a few days." He hangs up with a long sigh and settles in to keep a careful watch for any signs of danger. What those signs would look like, I'm not entirely certain.

For the record, I don't believe in aliens. I don't not believe in them either, but that's neither here nor there to Casey. If he asks, which he has, I have to be honest and say that I really have a hard time accepting that the war of the worlds was fought in Herrington, Ohio, without any knowledge or participation from everywhere else. But I've always thought it was possible — unlike Roy, who sat me down soon after he met Casey and told me that this somewhat peculiar boy was not merely peculiar but actually crazy.

"He's harmless, though," Roy added, way back when, and I still believe that. Even after everything that's happened, I don't think Casey's all that dangerous to others. The thing with Winona was a terrible situation that ended badly; Zeke and I are determined to prevent it from happening again. Still, as much as I do worry about Casey's outbursts, my greatest fears these days are about what happens when there is no outburst, when he directs that violence inwards. Because that's what he usually does.

I have brought the four remaining Xanax in their lonely, spacious container. I was thinking that they might be needed on the plane but Casey seems okay with planes as long as he has the window seat and me on his other side. I guess he figures he's going to buy it in an alien invasion long before he can go down in a fiery crash. Or perhaps he doesn't care because Zeke has been lost and it's all over.

When we get to Cincinnati in the early afternoon, the whole excursion becomes a new sort of challenge; rather than having Casey take the train as in previous years, his father has driven up from Herrington to get him, perhaps thinking to spare him those hours on the train, in close quarters with strangers. It is a nice thought but personally I would so much rather take the train. Apparently Allison couldn't get the time off today, so we three will be trapped together in Frank's big boat of a car for two hundred miles. In no hurry to start that ordeal, I insist on a decent lunch first, in a deli that we find near the airport.

Also for the record, I do not enjoy groveling endlessly with Casey to get him to eat. I don't make a practice of counting how many bites he actually takes, although I happen to know that today he takes twenty-two --- thirteen of his sandwich and nine of his soup. Basically, he is eating the entire lunch and I have to give him credit for his good behaviour lately. Perhaps that has something to do with the fact that I have given up trying to be creative with what he eats. I now feed him sandwiches for the most part...tuna fish, peanut butter...cheese. He doesn't seem to mind oatmeal, thank heaven, and I have invented a nice marinated vegetable salad that he eats by the bowlful.

Frank Connor watches us do our meal routine without comment but I know that he's thinking all sorts of unbalanced and prejudicial things. I am not comfortable with this man, although Casey has given him the high compliment of being happy to see him. I know the man loves his son, but — oh, well, I too, have my issues. All too soon there is nothing left to do but get in the car and go. Dreading that Casey is in one of his mute moods and that we will therefore spend the entire trip in an excruciating silence, I send a silent plea to him to participate in whatever conversation might arise.

As soon as we are on the highway, Frank brings up a question he has evidently been dying to ask. "So, Casey...what do you think about school next semester?"

I withdraw my plea. My kitten does not need this right now...but he valiantly answers, "Um...actually, I have s-something to tell you, Dad."

"What's that?" Frank says, like he's expecting the worst.

"I — I ..." Casey trails off.

Frank waits, then prompts, "Yes, what?"

"I do...I think I'd like to t-take a...a course, in January."

Frank is obviously disappointed. "Just one course?"

"My...Dr. Yves thought it would be a good idea to start part-time."

"Oh..." The silence speaks eloquently of a tug of war going on between Frank's impatience to see his son resume his life and his genuine desire not to pressure him. "I can see...you wouldn't want to rush anything."

"And, Dad..."

"Yeah?"

"I've...um...I've decided to change my major."

Just hearing those words has me cheering silently. Not so much because Casey is asserting something, although that is wonderful, but because he is actually talking about the future. I know I shouldn't make too much of this because it doesn't mean we're in the clear...but it's gotta be a positive sign.

"Change your major," Frank echoes, like his brain is having trouble ingesting those words.

"Y-yeah," Casey falters.

Go, I urge, Go on, tell him.

"But change it to what?"

"...film."

"Film?" Frank says, making three syllables of one little word. I'll bet he didn't even know that film was an area for study. "As in watching movies?"

"N-no, Dad, not like...you s-study film as an...an art form."

Ah, the dreaded word — art. Need I mention that I was, in my teen years, quite artsy? I wouldn't say "artistic" because I don't think I had much ability, but I sure as hell had a sense of style. I took all the art courses in high school — in addition to shop, which was not optional for me — and repeatedly endured my father's scorn of anything having to do with the aesthetic. Even ten years later, just hearing Casey use the word "art" in his father's presence gets me vicariously tense.

"But what can you do with it? What kind of job will it get you?"

This is a fair if predictable question. I wonder how much time Casey and Yves spent rehearsing this conversation, because the next bit sounds like it was rehearsed. "I don't know...b-but...but physics won't get me a job, Dad, because.. I...I'm sorry but I just don't want to be a scientist."

Frank's next argument surprises me: "But you're so good at it, Casey."

The next pause stretches a considerable length, and I suspect that Casey is tongue-tied. I decide it's time for me to be my busy-body self. I put in, "You should see how serious he is about it, Frank. He watches everything, even silent films. He reads books about them." That is a slight fib. I know that Casey used to — what he's read lately, I don't know. "And he has a wonderful eye. You should see some of the black and whites he took a little while ago."

"Hmm," was all that Frank had to say.

"Dad?" Casey said softly. "You want me to...to be happy, right? I mean...not do something just because it pays...even if I don't like it?"

"I thought you liked science."

"I did...I d-do..."

He is losing ground. I almost have to clap my hands over my mouth to keep from interfering any further. This is his battle, after all; I can't fight it for him.

Frank sighs, "I don't know...we'll see what your mother has to say."

Then, just as I had feared, silence falls. I don't suppose it will help if I inform Frank that Casey will do this with or without him because Zeke is prepared to completely foot the bill. I wrack my brain for things to say and come up with nothing. Normally I can rattle nonsense for hours if I need to, but I feel terribly self-conscious right now. I fall back on pretending to be extremely interested in the view out my window, as though it is so compelling that I don't even notice the absence of conversation.

Only one hundred and eighty miles to go.

 

When we finally arrive at the Connors' I have a headache and a sore back. I am thinking, with longing, of a nap. However, the very first issue to be settled is where Casey and I are to sleep. We have more or less decided that I should share with him if possible. However, Frank announces the moment we get in the door that Casey's old room is all ready for him. I know for a fact that there is no room for me in this equation; Frank is obviously concerned that we all practice celibacy under his roof. Now, I am perfectly content to let Frank believe that we are respecting his prohibition against Zeke and Casey sharing a bed — but I don't think any of us wants the parents to realize that not only are they not sleeping together while they are here, they actually aren't sleeping together. I, for one, do not see myself explaining the reasons for this to Frank and Allison.

Casey glances anxiously at me and stammers out something to his father about how he and I are bunking in together. The expression on Frank's face is something I will cherish for the rest of my days. If only I could let him suffer a bit longer...but I can't, because this whole business is making Casey edgy.

"It's just to help Casey sleep," I add. Hmm. That didn't come out right. "I mean...he sleeps better if someone else is there."

Frank looks disbelieving, and I can't blame him. He turns to Casey for confirmation; Casey immediately puts The Eyes to work. "I...I get bad dreams sometimes, Dad."

Very shortly, Casey and I have been designated the extra room, which has a double bed. The rest of the time this must be the laundry sorting room. There is an ironing board and an enormous mound of clothes that may or may not be clean; Frank scurries to put the board and the iron away and removes the clothing in two huge arm loads while I find a place for my suitcase that is out of the way. Returning, Frank stands awkwardly in the doorway. I look up and see that he is frowning; I follow his gaze to his son.

Casey has just left his own suitcase on the floor and slumped down on the bed. To say that he doesn't look good would be a compliment.

The thing is, I was waiting for Casey to flip out when we left the apartment. I expected him to flip out at the airport, on the airplane, in the coffee shop where we ate lunch. The car was more or less neutral ground but I held off relaxing my vigilance until we got to the Connors' house, assuming that once we were here everything would be fine and I could allow myself to appreciate how worn down I actually feel. So I'm not quite prepared for the way Casey looks now. My kitten certain has worn many shades of pale since I first met him, but this one beats them all.

I blurt, "Oh, God, what?"

Casey shakes his head, strained eyes pleading for me to understand. Somehow, I grasp that he doesn't want to tell me in front of his father.

I request, as politely as I know how, "Frank, I'm sorry...excuse us for a second, please?"

"Er...okay," he says, not liking it of course. He steps back and closes the door softly.

I go to Casey and sit down beside him. I take his hand and ask, "What is it?"

He shakes his head again.

"Come on, tell me...please, kitten."

"I..."

"Yes?"

"Can I have a Xanax?"

"Kitten... I don't know."

"Please, Sasha."

He is begging me, and I hate it. "Why now, kitten? You've already gone so far and done so much today — and now you're home."

"I — I don't know — don't know where I am."

Now, this kind of stuff scares the shit out of me, in case anyone was wondering. I think I'm good at hiding it, though. "What do you mean you don't know where you are?" I ask. Again with the firm but gentle voice. "This is where you grew up, right...there shouldn't be anyplace more familiar."

"It doesn't feel right...this isn't my room...Zeke's not here..." He is near tears again, vibrating again, breathing fast and shallow again. There seems to be no end to it. "...and — and — he's so far — I don't know what he's doing — if he's — "

"Kitten. Zeke is at home studying...there's nothing to be scared of...you know, I'll bet this is happening mostly because you're tired, what with the stress of travelling and everything. I'm tired, too."

In return for this expression of solicitude, I get a testy look. He retracts his hand and mutters, "I'm not a child."

"I know that," I answer, seeking the wellspring of patience inside me, the source that I draw on so that these moments just roll off my back. "And I know that you know that it's safe here. You're strong, Casey, much stronger than you want to believe."

"Don't say that."

"It's the truth."

"That's...like something Dr. Yves...would say."

"I consider that a high compliment."

"She's always...going on about how I...I know who I c-can trust and who's safe...that I act like I know..."

"Oh...you mean, kind of like how you didn't want to hurt your dad just now?"

Casey eyes go wet and glassy. "Sasha..."

"I have a point, don't I? If you really didn't know where you were, if this house was really a strange place and he was a stranger...Would you have considered your father's feelings?"

Casey is quiet for a moment and I think he is about to tell me to shut up and butt out. But he doesn't. He breathes in that scary, unwholesome way for a bit, then he says angrily, "You want to know what I'm really thinking?"

From his tone, I suspect it's something I don't want to hear but I say bravely, "Yes, tell me."

"That — that you and Zeke have it all fixed — you want to leave me here."

My mouth drops open. "What?"

"I know you're always talking about me when I'm asleep. You have it all planned...he doesn't want me anymore, why would he after what I did, and since you're both tired and fed up, I might as well stay here — "

I put a hand firmly but gently over his mouth. "All right, that's enough of that."

He jerks back from me. "You asked."

"Yeah, I asked...and you're talking nonsense."

He hugs himself, shivering and glaring at the same time. "Why do you have to be like her?"

"Casey...you've lost me, okay?"

"Don't try to make me reasonable, that's what she always does. And — and Zeke. Don't you — be like that too — be like that when I have this in me and I'm drowning in it, don't just stand off on the side and tell me to get busy swimming!"

His fists and his face are clenched with anger, and something worse, something that is willing to do whatever it must to rescue itself. Scary Casey is making an appearance and I am conscious that I am much more interested in controlling him than comforting him now. Maybe it isn't the best strategy, but I respond to his anger with a raised voice. "So what should I do, Casey? Just hold you while you go under?"

I do not often yell. He flinches, the anger on his face breaking apart and dissolving quicky, making way for sorrow.

"Then what do you want me to do?" I ask, more gently.

His shoulders are slumped. "Dunno."

He sounds defeated, and that scares me more than anything else I've heard thus far. He gets that way now and then — a few minutes, hours, and I don't know what to do. He isn't even trembling right now. He is just...still. So very still, and I know it isn't a good thing. At least when he's scared there's a part of him still fighting.

We hear the door opening and closing downstairs. There is a murmur of two very familiar, parental voices. Then Allison calls up the stairs, "Honey? Casey?"

I smooth my hand over Casey's back. "You belong with me and Zeke and Seattle, kitten. That's not going to change, okay? This is just going home for the holidays...it's quite common. I promise that Zeke will be here in a few days...and in the meantime you're in the place where you grew up. It's safe, your parents are happy you're here...it's Christmas. Everything according to plan."

And I am now begging him. Because I want this, I want the Christmas package, the happy feelings and the food and the presents and I need him to be, if not well, at least able to maintain some sort of equilibrium. The long and short of it is I want a miracle — just a temporary one will do. I am not reckless enough to hope for any sudden transformations.

"O-okay," he whispers, obviously trying to give me what I want.

"You can sleep in your old room I'm sure, if it helps," I suggest, although I hate the idea.

His hand grabs at mine and clutches so hard it hurts. "No."

"Casey?!" Allison calls again.

He's getting more tense by the second but there's not much to be done about that. I squeeze his shoulder and suggest, "I know you don't want to worry your parents..."

I am basically asking him to put on a show for his folks and I'm sure he knows it's for me too; I am somewhat ashamed at my dishonesty. I feel him nod even before he pulls back. For an instant as I look into those eyes, I see a person who could teach me the real meaning of weary. Then he stands up and moves to the door. He turns to me and gives me something that is, if not a smile, the expression that could precede a smile. "Come on," he says.

As I follow him down, I wonder if he might possibly be the greatest actor that ever lived.

 

So I have requested a miracle, and as the days begin to pass, more or less without serious incident, I know that I have received something. Whatever it is hasn't been dropped on me from above, though. It is the result of judicious optimism, careful maintenance and plain old luck. Maybe that's just what a miracle is...but I don't really care. Wherever this comes from, I will take it.

I suspect that it has a lot to do with Casey being at "home". No other place could possibly be as known, as familiar. Plus in a very weird way, I think that because Herrington is where the aliens supposedly arrived and were vanquished, Herrington is somehow less of a threat. I know how silly and illogical that sounds, but it's the impression that I have.

Of course, Casey is still not entirely comfortable with his parents, but he is able to relate to them as people he knows well, people with whom he has a long history. He remembers that these are, first and foremost, people who love him. And they have been doing a much better job of showing just how much they care. Not only did Frank drive all the way to Cincinnati to pick us up, he has given Casey a disbursement of cash so he can buy some Christmas presents. And Allison seems determined to cook every one of Casey's favourites for him before he has to go back to Seattle. The first night it was meatloaf. The second night it was a home-made pizza from a kit, something Casey remembers all the way back to infancy. He eats of these things with appetite and enthusiasm; my cook's ego is dwindling by the second.

So far, Zeke has phoned each night as promised, and each night I have had to force myself to go to another part of the house and not listen in. It is entirely likely that these calls are the actual thing holding Casey together — that and the fact that during the day when he starts getting that ragged look in his eye, like he wants to start running around the house screaming and tearing his skin off, I immediately drag him out for a really long walk. I want him to be physically exhausted at the end of the day so that he has no option but to collapse and sleep. It seems to be working.

I was right, by the way; Christmas is a big deal at the Connors' house. There are lights inside and out, plastic snowmen on the lawn, a festive wreath on the front door...There are all sorts of family collectibles that come out every year for the season, including a ceramic village set that Allison has been collecting since she was a child. The whole house was like this when we arrived, save for the tree, which was still untrimmed. Last night, Casey and his mother festooned that poor overwhelmed spruce while his father shouted instructions from the side: "No, put it there, Allison, there's a great big hole there...that light needs to go up, Case!...Stick it there...no, there!" They are even lucky enough to have a small fireplace in the living room, although it no longer functions as such. So they hung stockings on the mantle, too — with care, you might say, and they included a couple for me and Zeke that Allison dug up from somewhere. There was apple cider on the stove as they went about these activities; if nothing else, it made the house smell wonderful. I went in to fetch some for myself at one point and when I returned to the living room I walked into some sort of mother-father-son tableau. I stood back, not wanting to listen in — no, really. I didn't want to hear it. In fact, for a few seconds the bitterness that overcame me was absolutely unspeakable. Disgusted by myself, I waited until it was appropriate and strode forward, exhibiting all my usual good cheer. Casey welcomed me with a smile, the first real smile I'd seen in a few weeks.

The only thing that was missing was the snow; as of last night there was only a little bit of hard-packed white on the ground. This morning, though, a winter wonderland arrived — better late than never, I say. The white stuff has fallen all day and on into the night...large, soft flakes wafting heavily out of a glowing yellow sky. And right now, even though it is dark and Casey's parents don't know what to make of it, I insist that Casey and I go for our second walk of the day. Because I must be out in the snow. I have had few such opportunities since leaving Wisconsin; it snows, after a fashion, in Cincinnati, but in cities snow is rarely anything but a big dirty mess.

There is a silence in the air, even a hallowed quality if I may dare to apply such a concept. The temperature is quite pleasant, too. I look at my kitten as he trudges beside me, occasionally staring up into the sky, and the thought crosses my mind that he's almost looking healthy again. The sleeping and the eating agree with him. At the moment, he is exhibiting a rare, simple calm; the fact that there are almost no people about at the moment probably has a lot to do with it.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" I say.

"Hmm?"

"The snow."

"Oh...yeah."

"Festive, too."

"We always have snow. One year we didn't and it just wasn't the same."

"I know. It just isn't Christmas without it."

We are passing by an elementary school with a small playground; I wonder if it is the school that Casey attended when he was a child. He wanders over in the direction of the swing-set, which is outlined in white along with the slide and other structures. Stopping there, he leans up against the iron frame and puts his hands in his pockets. Then, completely unexpectedly, he says, "I'm sorry, Sasha."

"Sorry? What for?"

"It must be a bit gross...us doing our Norman Rockwell thing. My mom's always been so..."

"No," I interrupt. "It's not gross. I'm very happy to be here for all of it."

"Do you ever visit home?"

"Seattle is my home now."

Casey looks sad on my behalf. And it so happens that I'm really sorry for myself, which is an appalling state of affairs. I haven't ever let myself get mired in self-pity; it just isn't something that I do and I won't allow it to go on for more than a half a minute.

I declare, "Don't you be sorry for me, kitten. I don't regret being honest with my folks and if they ever want me in their life again, they'll have to have me, all of me or none of me."

Casey stamps the snow under his feet, making a pattern. "My mom and dad — they're okay with me taking film now. I mean, they're not totally happy but they're not going to try to stop me or refuse to help me."

"That's awesome, kitten."

"And they told me they were sorry about what happened last year...the way I left."

"That's really good," I say, and I mean it.

Casey looks earnestly at me. "I'm glad you're here, Sasha."

"So am I, kitten."

"I mean...glad you don't have to be alone."

I'm not used to him being so observant of my moods, or if he is, he usually doesn't let me know it. I have been blind-sided and I must battle back tears. "Me too," I whisper.

Moving again, he brushes snow off a swing and sits on it. Looking back at the sky, he lets himself rock gently. "I could stay out here forever," he says as large petals of snow settle on his forehead and cheeks.

I see him sitting there, hour after hour until he disappears, swallowed in that white, wooly silence. Something about this does not put me at ease. "Let's head back," I suggest. "We'll have some hot cocoa."

We're back at the house soon; Casey goes in first, stamping snow off his boots in the front hall. His mother checks to see that it's him, sticking her head out of the dining room; I believe that she is making a holiday cookbook, cutting clippings out of magazines with the recipes she wants to use for Christmas dinner and gluing them all into a notebook for easy, one-stop availability. It's stuff like this that endears the woman to me.

"Delilah called," she informs Casey.

"Oh," he acknowledges her.

"Are you going to call her back?"

"Yeah," Casey confirms, rolling his eyes where only I can see. He goes into the kitchen to make the call. I follow him in and brazenly stand nearby listening...much as his mother is doing. "Hi, Delilah — it's Casey...okay, I guess....no...I haven't started actually."

Please let that not be a reference to his Christmas shopping.

"Yeah...I guess we could do that...when? Okay...how about one-ish..."

Casey listens to Delilah for a while.

"I dunno...I'm not really up to that, Del...sorry...but Stokely wanted the five of us to get together at some point though...yeah, all five of us...okay, I'll see you tomorrow." He hangs up, looking over at me. "She asked me to her party tomorrow," he says sombrely. "I just — I don't think I can."

"It's okay, kitten. Parties are always optional. Did I hear you say you haven't done any shopping yet?"

He nods.

I think that I had better not have an opinion about that. I have had my shopping done for two weeks; in fact, I started on November 1st, expecting that I was going to be busy and wouldn't have a lot of time for anything but a little browsing here and there... and okay, I have an opinion. It grieves me that Casey did no shopping in Seattle, where the truly interesting and unique gifts could be found. Still, I suppose he had a few other things on his mind.

We make cocoa --- unfortunately, it's just the instant mix instead of the real thing — and nest in the living room. From other parts of the house we can hear his father's television rattling and his mother manipulating scotch tape and scissors. We have left the lamps off so the room is illuminated by that glow of pinkish red, silver and green. Allison has different tastes than I do; where I would have gone for all white lights and silver and gold accents on the tree, she likes to have the poor thing coated in every colour under the rainbow, and bells and garland and tinsel. All the same, being here like this gives me a feeling of deep content. Casey leans his head against me and we sit without talking for quite a while.

I am the first to break the silence. "Is nice to be at home, isn't it, kitten?"

"Yeah."

"You feel okay?"

"I wish Zeke were here."

"I know...and he will in a few days." I let a few seconds pass before asking in a low voice, "Do you think that this new drug is helping at all?"

What I really need to know is if this portrayal of a person in stasis is just that — an act, or is it really that he has found some balance here over the past few days? I am thinking that maybe he is in a constant state of fear that I'm somehow not seeing because the drugs are working just enough that he can hide it...until he loses control at the worst possible moment and in the most spectacular manner, of course.

The way we are sitting, I can't see Casey's eyes. "I don't know," he muses slowly.

Not a heck of a lot of information, that. "How can you not know?"

He shivers slightly. "I...still have the same thoughts that I usually have. I think about Zeke and I can't believe that I'm here and I'm just...doing ordinary things. I'm so scared but somehow...it's like something's holding me down, controlling my body."

I don't know if this is a way to live, but it is a way to survive and maybe that's the best we can do right now. I don't want to say this to Casey, however. I limit my comment to, "It is helping, then."

"But I'm still scared all the time," he whispers. "And — I think if I got really scared and started to panic...I don't think it could keep me down. Like if Zeke — if he s-said he didn't want to — to be with me anymore."

"Which is not going to happen, by the way."

"It's what happens to most people."

I am profoundly surprised. "Kitten, I thought you were a romantic."

"Stan and Stokely broke up... You and Jerry broke up."

And again with the blindsiding.

I have to break out of our comfortable lean so I can take a look; I see him not really looking at me. There is definitely some guilt. His capacity for self-blame is endless, of course. "Yes, we did," I admit, then add, "How did you know?"

"You just haven't mentioned him at all...and you didn't go to see him...or go out with him...before we left."

Put that way, I suppose it's obvious. "Yeah, I guess I should have mentioned it."

"Are you...okay?"

"I'm very okay, kitten. It was quite friendly, not at all nasty. Mutual agreement, really. He knew I didn't feel the same way about him as he did about me, is all. I'm sad about it, but I understand. I don't want him to be hurt."

"I'm sorry."

"You aren't thinking this has something to do with you?"

The way I put that, Casey will come off profoundly self-centred if he answers in the affirmative. He shifts a bit, and doesn't answer.

I continue, "He's a very nice guy...kind and attractive and I care very much for him — but I don't love him the way he'd like me to."

"Because he's not old enough for you," Casey says, a little sly, his eyes finally flickering in my direction.

"Hey, what are you hinting at? That I only like older men? Because it's not true."

"All the ones I've seen you with...except Jerry...were older."

Hmm...I hadn't really noticed that. It has to be a coincidence, not a pattern because I would never be such a cliche. I mean...I suppose there are things about older men that I prefer a lot of the time..like maturity, stability, and experience. Show me a twenty-seven-year-old guy with all those qualities and I'll date him in a heartbeat.

"Anyway," I say, picking up the original thread of conversation. "I think that you and Zeke are a lot different than me and Jerry."

He doesn't seem to have anything to say to that. I return to sipping my cocoa, waiting for Zeke's nightly call to shatter the quiet and prove me right. But it grows late, and then even later, and the call doesn't come. I am very surprised, and amazed that Casey isn't going nuts — until I realize he has fallen asleep. And people say there's no such thing as miracles.

I let him sleep long enough that he won't really remember or think consciously about anything when I do jostle him onto his feet and to bed.

When he wakes up the next morning it's another story, and I'm cursing Zeke to myself. Just yesterday Casey was doing a very good job on the high wire; up close he would be sweating and shaking with the strain, but from a distance, quite graceful. Now he's completely off-balance, about to hit the ground hard. I do my usual routine to distract him; I am comforting, calm, upbeat. I spin a story about how Zeke had just finished his last exam and was probably exhausted; how he fell asleep and didn't wake up until really late so he thought it best not to call. Casey doesn't believe it, and I don't really buy it either. This is Zeke we're talking about. He doesn't forget things, he doesn't get too distracted...He is on the ball. There are those rare hiccoughs such as when he was sick a couple of weeks ago; he must have been really worn down to lose track of what Casey was up to the way he did. Personally, I think he still noticed things but he didn't inquire because he was too fed up and tired and miserable to care. Which is to say that he only misses things when he wants to, and Casey knows it too.

As of today, Allison has begun her own Christmas vacation, not that there's going to be much restful about them. She has a huge to-do list, and this morning she has roped us into helping her with her baking and pre-cooking for Christmas dinner. That is, I help while Casey haunts the kitchen, staring anxiously at the phone and nibbling on his fingers. Allison tries to engage him in the conversation repeatedly, bringing up his new subject of study and his impending trip to Los Angeles. To my eyes, he is trying to avoid thinking at all about the next leg of his journey and that is not a good sign.

Next, Allison tries a discussion about the family members who will be arriving in a couple of days. There is an aunt and a grandmother who will be staying here over Christmas; this is going to be a very full house, that's for sure. The aunt is Allison's sister, Clarissa, who lives in Santa Fe with their mother, having taken responsibility for looking after her. Casey has no other grandparents. There is another aunt who is Frank's sister, plus an uncle, and cousins aged ten, eight and three. I am told that they have come to stay with the Connors in past years but this year they felt the need to start their own family tradition at home. I want to ask about the rest of Frank's family but am not brave enough. I will ask Casey later, when the fate of his entire universe doesn't hang in the balance and he is once again fit for an ordinary conversation.

By the time that Allison and I have stamped out six dozen shortbreads, Casey is nearly climbing the walls and I can't take it anymore. "Oh, kitten, just call him," I say, conscious of the deja vu. He immediately jumps on that suggestion; I don't know why he felt he had to wait for my permission.

He tries both home and Zeke's cell phone and gets no answer. Maybe Zeke is having a smoke up on the roof or doing an errand but that doesn't explain why he wouldn't answer his cell. Casey waits and tries again, and again there is no answer. He stands holding the phone against his chest for a long time, not saying anything. I do believe that our answering machine is recording his heartbeat. Finally, he hangs up.

Not for the millionth time, I wonder what goes through his head when he thinks about Zeke. Does his own dependence bother him so much that he refuses to acknowledge it out loud, or is he so completely drugged by the anticipation of falling into Zeke and never being found that he doesn't really think consciously about what he's doing or how he's acting? It astounds me that he might not realize how his own personality is already blaring from him a lot of the time, making implosion rather impossible. When I look at him, I see an original...a prickly, stubborn, cuddly, vulnerable creature. That personality is not going to let itself be smothered no matter how much he might try to beat it down.

Shortly, Delilah shows up to take Casey with her to the mall. I remember Delilah of course, from our very brief meeting just before we three left town. She strikes me as a high-maintenance girl with a sad little soul, and I wonder at Stokely's vociferous hatred of her. Ah, well...we all do things we regret in high school. I cringe to remember some of my own performances.

I can see that the last thing Casey wants to do is leave this house. Even at the best of times he doesn't like shopping malls, and now he's expected to go to a mall a few days before Christmas — and now, when he would much rather stay near the phone. I don't particularly want him to go anywhere myself, not without me. I know that I have gone on and on about how I don't think he's dangerously unhinged but that doesn't mean I don't prefer being in a position to keep a constant eye on him. Especially when he's going to be brushing up against people and people are going to be brushing up against him...not to mention looking at him.

In defiance of these less than supportive thoughts, I decide that it is my duty to encourage Casey to go spend some time with his friend while I remain back at the Connor ranch. It takes some persuasion on my part to get him out the door, and I imagine that I am only successful because he has made a promise to Delilah, and because he hasn't yet given up on living as long as December 25th when some people are going to be expecting some gifts from him.

When he is finally gone, I try to call Zeke myself. I don't know why I feel the need for it. I am shocked when he actually answers.

"Fucking hello already!" is his salutation.

"What kind of greeting is that?" I return.

"Sasha...I'm not in the mood."

"We missed your call last night."

"I was getting drunk."

"Why?"

"Where's Casey?" he demands, and I blink at the sudden change of subject.

"He went shopping with Delilah."

"By himself?"

"No, with Delilah. Why are you so cranky?"

"Was he anxious?"

Again, the lightning fast change-up. Does he think I don't know avoidance when I hear it? "I think he's okay," I reply.

"Good. Look, I'm hung over, Sasha."

"All right, but why were you drinking?"

"Do I need a reason? Tell Casey I'm sorry I didn't call and I'll call him later."

He hangs up without waiting for me to give confirmation.

Allison has been standing at the kitchen counter listening and neglecting the pile of shortbread dough in front of her. "Everything okay?" she asks.

I want to laugh — not at her, just at the way people ask things like that when there is no way to answer them honestly. They don't want to hear...Well, a few things are okay, some are kind of okay and kind of not okay at the same time, while others are so incredibly not okay that they eclipse everything else but we're doing our best to push past it on the theory that if we fake it at some point what we pretend will eventually become the truth. They just want to hear that everything is indeed okay, and I don't blame them. I want the same thing.

"Everything's fine," I reply. "Do you want some tea? I'm going to make some."

For the next few hours I sip tea and focus on not providing Allison with too much unsolicited baking advice. She knows what she's doing, although she does have a tendency to overwork her doughs and batters. Midway through the afternoon she switches from baking long enough to brown a pot roast and put it in the oven with some potatoes and carrots. This is another family favourite, apparently.

Near three o'clock, Delilah and Casey return — and nope, things are not okay. Casey is ghastly; I'm talking white like Martha Stewart's ass. "We ran into Stan's mother," Delilah explains to me in the front hall. "She's severely uptight."

"Oh?" I say, looking to Casey. He stands there miserably, still wearing his coat, scarf, boots, gloves, making no move towards removing any of them. "What did she say?"

"She's a real treat." Delilah smirks and goes on, "She doesn't have a life so she uses all her energy for praying and passing judgment. She used to give me advice all the time on how to dress. 'That skirt's a little short, don't you think, dear? You don't want the boys to jump to conclusions.'"

"What...did...she...say?" I may not know but I can guess, and already I am outraged on Casey's behalf.

"Well, she starts off by asking Casey where Zeke is, all smarmy like, right? Casey's trying to be polite and then she starts saying things like 'Stan tells me there's three of you' by which she means 'your kind'...'There's three of you living together and Zeke's really the odd man out.' I said what do you mean and she basically makes it sound like there's just an ongoing orgy in your apartment and she's so surprised that a nice boy like Zeke would suddenly change his whole life that way."

"Shit," I mutter. "Fucking bullshit."

"I left the bags at the store," Casey says.

Delilah pats his arm, looking like someone who isn't used to making gestures of physical affection. "They said they'd hang on to them for you." She sees me looking and drops her hand with a shrug. "I phoned them already."

"Casey," I say, "You shouldn't have let her get to you...people like that are just pathetic, not scary."

Delilah laughs. "Oh, he put her right in her place! He looked right at her and suddenly he's just flaming and he says, 'You'd be surprised how people can change, Mrs. Rosado. Like Stan for example...since I moved to Seattle he's changed so much you wouldn't believe it.'" She laughs again, then looks surreptitiously at me to see if I am offended.

I am not offended in the least. I grin at Casey, who is still bleached of all colour. "Good one," I congratulate him.

"Yeah," Delilah crows. "She turned purple! I think she wanted to rush straight home and call Stan to make sure he still has his immortal soul."

Caseys mourns, "But then after that I..."

Delilah's smile fades. "I guess it was a panic thing..."

Just the mention of the word panic seems to be having a negative effect; Casey is hyperventilating a little. "Sorry," he wheezes.

"Hey, it's okay," Delilah says but she is obviously less than comfortable. "Why don't I go back to the store right now and get those things for you and drop them off?"

Casey nods, and as Delilah makes a quick exit I move forward and tug on Casey's scarf. "You gonna take these off and stay a while, kitten?" Without resistance he begins removing his gear but he's having a difficult time of it the way he is shaking and I have to help before he strangles himself. Gently batting his hands out of the way, I unknot the scarf. "What's this about, kitten?"

"Maybe sh-she's right, maybe..."

"About the three of us being fuck-buddies? C'mon now."

"But — but he's alone and — he — he didn't call last night."

"Well, you know what? I decided to try phoning him again after you went out today and he answered. He didn't call last night because he was getting wasted like an idiot...He misses you, kitten, and he said he'd call you later."

"Oh." Whatever I'm selling, Casey's eyes say he's not buying. "But — I've — I've been so much trouble lately, maybe — maybe he doesn't — "

"I think it's time to read that list our yours again," I suggest gently. "And did Dr. Yves not give you any other exercises to try when this happens?"

"Yeah, but..."

"But...?"

He lifts his chin. "But I don't want to do them right now."

Good for him for being straight up about what he wants, or in this case, doesn't want...Too bad I can't accept it. I insist, "Then I'll bet now is the perfect time."

Casey looks pained — no, he's just in pain. He's hurting and there's not much I can do to stop it. I knew that sooner or later the simmer of insecurity must achieve a rolling boil, and really, it could just as easily have happened without the catalyst of Zeke's failure to call. Casey hasn't been in the absence of Zeke for more than eight consecutive hours in the last four months — the only surprising thing was that he's gone this far without having some kind of episode. I just...need to know that I am really helping him. I am aware that pouring love, affection and caring into him is not going to get it done; I've been doing that and no way am I going to stop but I've gotten to the point where I feel I need to give him something practical — a task, a plan, something. I need to do something to see him stop hurting.

"Go on, kitten. You've been doing so well with this stuff, don't stop now."

He sighs, and then nods, trudging up the stairs to the room we have been sharing. I hear the door shut.

Around five-thirty, Frank returns from work; at this point, dinner has been ready and waiting for half an hour. We haven't heard so much as a peep from Casey since he went to his room. I have been torturing myself, alternating between thinking that I made a mistake in leaving him alone up there for this long and telling myself that he doesn't need me constantly looking over his shoulder. Like Zeke, he needs some alone time — doesn't he?

"Is that roast beef I smell?" Frank asks as he wanders into the kitchen. He gives his wife a casual peck on the cheek.

Allison nods. Her anxiety isn't too obvious, but he catches on.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, just...we should call Casey."

"Where is he?"

"In his room."

"How long has he been in there?"

I say, hoping that I'm speaking the truth, "He's just been writing in his journal. It's something that he has to do for his doctor." Of course, he might just as easily have been catatonic for the last hour but I won't mention that.

Well, Frank must really want his pot roast. He gets a determined look on his face and marches up the stairs to the second floor. I hear his fist on the door and his voice booming. It is not unkind from the sound of it, just very forceful, and a little while later Casey is escorted down like a hostage, his father bringing up the rear. Whatever hallucinations are at play in Casey's head, he still has the wherewithal to sit and eat and even acknowledge his mother, so I think it can't be all that bad. I can almost laugh at my agonizing just before.

In the middle of the meal the phone rings and Casey is up like a shot. It always surprises me how fast he can move when he wants to.

"Hello...? Zeke...?"

This time, there are three of us eavesdropping.

"I tried to call you today...wh-why didn't you call last night...oh... oh... sorry... okay...not very much...was freaking out all day...because, you know...I just...miss you...I know...I'm trying...I will — Zeke, will you call tomorrow? I know I'm just being crazy but I start thinking all these things and I can't stop — okay...okay...talk to you...tomorrow."

When Casey returns to the table he looks the tiniest bit brighter than he was. "He got wasted last night to celebrate his last exam and passed out," Casey explains. "He was hung over today."

I nod, giving him an encouraging smile. He's back up on his high wire and me along with him, smiling and waving my arms. We should be able to keep it up for the next twenty-four hours, until Zeke's next call.

 

Not quite forty-eight hours later, Casey and I have a train to meet. At three forty in the afternoon we are sitting on one of those old-fashioned wooden benches that can still be found in older train stations; there is a double row of them, back to back along the length of this small waiting area. Casey's is fixated on the platform, clearly visible through the window, where passengers are de-training at this very moment. He's gnawing on one terribly abused thumbnail; the poor thing looks like raw meat. I make the mistake of trying to rescue it and for my trouble I get a violent flinch- tug and a ferocious sideways stare.

I am wearing my best face but beneath it I'm doing some pretty severe worrying. Despite my best common sense, I have begun to make plans for what I will do if Zeke doesn't get off that train. There is no reason to think he won't — and yet I can't forget his hurt and outrage when he had his mini-breakdown on the roof three weeks ago. Even though I trust Zeke and I believe with all my heart that he loves Casey, I also know that he is not the type of person to cling to a situation that is bad for him. He is practical, unromantic really — and that's a compliment. What I mean is, he feels deeply but it never comes cheap. It's like he wants to ensure that any flights of feeling that come from him are one hundred percent authentic — so he overcompensates and holds back until his feelings are powerful enough to destroy ordinary men.

All at once, everything is okay because I see Zeke getting off the train — well, of course he is, and I feel a little foolish for my Casey-esque fretting. Maybe I need to heed my own advice once in a while.

Zeke is lugging a suitcase and an enormous hockey bag. I'm talking about the kind that can hold an entire set of hockey gear plus a stick; I figure there must be presents in there. As he enters the station itself, I can see even from a distance that he still appears very tired, maybe hungover, and the little part of my brain that issues the judgments wonders, unkindly, if he's been on some kind of bender — but then I witness the smile that breaks on his face when he sees Casey. Poor baby, always trying to be the stoic one. It's no wonder he was feeling down; he was missing Casey badly even before we left the apartment and Seattle.

I stand and watch as Casey just bolts across the station and launches himself at Zeke, who barely has time to drop his bags before Casey wraps his whole body around him — I mean everything, like he's a koala bear hanging onto a tree. I think sometimes that it must be nice to be short. You can get away with things like that.

Not that I am surprised, but Zeke is equally passionate. He kisses Casey hard and long and messy, not caring that there are a number of his fellow Herrington- ites around, watching them. If Zeke ever wanted to officially come out to his home town, he's just done it without even noticing or caring. And if I were to say something to him about it, he would probably go, "What? I know who and what I am so I don't need make any planned statements, I'll just do what I do...let them react to me if they like." He really takes my breath away at times, with his ability to coldly reason through a problem and convince himself that the logic is the reality. Some would call this denial. I prefer to see it as a strength that occasionally becomes a liability.

Of course, they are not supposed to be doing this but short of marching over and separating them, there is nothing I can do. I wouldn't want to cause them both some sort of permanent lip strain.

Finally they have to separate to take in some air, and they come to me wearing sly little faces, having conveniently recalled their vows of chastity only after they have very satisfyingly sinned. I welcome Zeke with a hug and say nothing. I hate being in this position. I hate it and I resent it. I'm not a prude, and it just so happens that I'm the romantic here, dammit. It's not fair that I should have to be the wet blanket in their lives.

We have been permitted the use of Allison's car today for the purpose of picking up Zeke; it is a cute little Jeep four runner that Frank bought her just this year to commemorate their twenty-fifth anniversary. Casey and Zeke both get into the back seat, leaving me to feel more than a little bit like their chauffeur. Oh, well...at least while I am driving I can keep an eye on them in the rear view mirror. I observe that Casey is plastered to Zeke, and he looks amazingly content.

Then, as I ease out of the parking lot, something happens that I would never have expected in a million years: Casey starts to talk. Now, I am well aware that over the months he's gradually become more verbal, and he's made a few pretty long speeches to me lately although he was always spurred on by guilt or anxiety. It just hits me at this moment, maybe because we're in his home town and the last time we were here, he was practically a mute. This is a long, winding, just-because-I-miss-you- and-I'm-so-relieved-you're-here-I've-gotta-tell-you-everything narrative. He starts with how he told his father about his change of plans for school and goes on to his mother's attempts to change his mind...the gradual reconciliation, how it's all settled now and then he goes off about the encounter with Stan's mother. He wraps up with a little vignette about shopping with Delilah and wonders if we are all going to go to hang out at Stokely's and watch Christmas movies one night very soon because she's in town now and she's been asking.

I am absolutely, utterly spellbound. He still stammers occasionally but this is my kitten talking a blue streak and I think, Who are you? Have we met before, because you seem vaguely familiar to me except the guy I'm thinking of never opens his mouth more than one syllable at a time.

Zeke just listens, nodding or grunting or making a comment on occasion. There is no question that he's very happy to see Casey and that makes me happy too. I suppose if they were, in the end, not a couple anymore I would accept it, but the fact is that I have a lot invested in seeing them end up together.

Well, that just sounds pathetic and suddenly I am missing Jerry. Or is it Jerry I miss? Perhaps it is just the comfort of having a warm body around.

No, I miss Jerry.

People underestimate Jerry — no, they don't under estimate, they mis-estimate. They buy the jovial my old pal act and figure he's just some waiter, a guy who occasionally comes off a bit snobby because he enjoys good wine and good food and he wants others to enjoy it with him. The Jerry he doesn't show is sweet, sensitive, a little on the perfectionist side but eager to please — and he will never reveal that guy unless it's safe for him to come out. He's also amazingly generous and thoughtful, and damn hot, I might add. He's chiselled, but not thick- necked and bulky. Just really, really aesthetically pleasing. And you wouldn't know it from that bland, all American face, but the guy is amazingly creative when it comes to sex. But again, he doesn't flaunt it.

I admire all that, and I admire his way of deciding that some parts of him are for loved ones only. I am not like that — big surprise, huh? I'm one-Sasha-fits-all, I don't modify myself for anyone. The whole world has to accept all of me, all the time, all at once. Jerry has pointed out that such absolute acceptance can be absolutely a lot of work. He has taught me that masks can be pretty friggin' restful at times.

When we get back to the Connors, I no longer have the luxury of thinking about Jerry. I have a mission to carry out: To strike dead any attempts that Casey and Zeke might make to enjoy each other's bodies, beyond what they've already gotten away with; while I've been ruminating, they've been in each other's pockets from the train station onward. Now we're at home, the parents are not yet home from work and Zeke has gotten settled in Casey's old room with its one, small bed. Suddenly there isn't much to do, and I can see that they have some ideas about how they could kill some time. Neither one of them seems to have remembered what was resolved upon.

I am just working up the brass to interfere in some really unsubtle way, to suggest that we all go downstairs and examine the tree for malfunctioning light bulbs or something equally ridiculous, when finally I see the slow, unhappy memory dawning in Casey. He is the first one to step back, and he looks at me with a whole bouquet of emotions on his face...shame, for sure, and a little resentment but I would swear that there is some species of relief as well.

I'm so proud of him at times, I can't stand it.

 

There is a thing that happens sometimes when the normal routine of your life gets shaken up; it is like time stops and your regular life is put on pause. I've had this feeling before and I'm having it now. With Zeke here it is the three of us together as usual, but completely out of our usual context. It feels like being in a special time and place where the usual rules don't apply. We are supposed to just concentrate on celebrating something — a birth, a death, a wedding, a holiday. I know that this is just an illusion, but I want it to be reality. I want to just relax and eat and be merry now.

It doesn't seem right to be worrying about things, especially when there is nothing overtly wrong. Perhaps because of their time apart, Casey and Zeke seem emotionally closer than ever, and Zeke has suddenly come over all touchy-feely. Not that he isn't usually quite demonstrative with Casey, but this is almost extreme. He wants Casey near him constantly; he touches, he caresses, he strokes, and he even gives gratuitous hugs — while Casey just soaks it all up as fast as Zeke can give it. My eyes can't seem to learn to see this as a problem. My alarm bells sound only when I see the burning stares that Zeke has been sending along with the affection — but there is nothing I can say other than "Zeke, stop looking at him!" Which I am not going to say because I would really like for the Connors to believe me sane.

By the way, I never thought I would find myself with Frank Connor as an ally. Actually, watching Frank try to adjust to the notion of his son's boyfriend staying with them for Christmas — now that's entertainment. He is polite, he doesn't make trouble but every time he looks at Zeke I can hear the prohibition: You are not to touch my son under my roof or I'll cut your dick off and send you home early. I find that I rather empathize with that sentiment, as silly as it is. It's kind of sweet, really. So what if this man basically ignored and neglected Casey through his entire adolescence — if Casey can forgive him, so will I.

If I sound a little too altruistic to be believed, it is because I'm in an altruistic mood. Those words I mentioned before — you know the ones, the cheesy ones that have become unexpectedly popular — well, I'm all about them right now. It is the 23rd of December, after all. Christmas is ready to happen, and I'm ready to be at peace with the world.

Needless to say, I'm feeling the Christmas vibe big time this evening. Casey and his parents have gone to fetch their relatives, leaving me and Zeke alone at the house. Earlier, I had some anxiety over the sleeping arrangements; apparently, the aunt and grandmother usually stay in the room that Casey and I are sharing. It has been determined, however, that this time the aunt is to have the sofabed in Frank's "den" and Zeke has willingly given up Casey's little room for the grandmother. He will sleep in the living room for the duration.

Currently, though, we are lounging downstairs in the rec room, waiting for the Connors to return, and Zeke is on the phone with Delilah. Stokely has let it be known that she wants her friends to hang out with her on Christmas Eve, but it seems that both Delilah and Stan have previous engagements. I wonder that Stokely doesn't have family obligations also, but she has assured us that she has nothing better to do during that time; her family spends the entirety of Christmas Day together, which is "more than enough" according to her. They will be out on Christmas Eve and she wants to have her own party.

"Well, I'm sure you can drop in for a while, can't you...? Yes, I know, but you can't really want to spend your entire evening with Celia, right...? Yes, Del, she specifically does want you to be there...she phoned and invited you, didn't she? And Casey and I want you there too...okay, just for a while, then. Good, we'll see you then...huh...? Oh, yeah, I heard about it...yeah, it does kind of give me a thrill. I wish I had been there...he's much better, yeah. So I'll see you tomorrow night." Zeke hangs up, wearing a little grin. He tells me, "Delilah says that Stan told her his mom asked him a whole pile of questions like she thought he's turning gay. Apparently she's praying for him."

I wave a languid hand. "Oh, but it's actually a virus, you know. The gay mafia developed it in the 1950's and let it loose on the population. Highly contagious, no antidote...part of our great conspiracy to take over the world." I try for an evil laugh but it doesn't come out quite right.

Zeke makes a face. "Anyway...I think I convinced her. So Stokely can finally take a pill. I don't know why she's so worked up."

"It's Christmas and she wants to have the old gang together again."

"We're not the old gang. We never were the old gang."

"Well...it's Christmas, Zeke, just go with it."

Naturally, Zeke doesn't really know how to go with it. He never just goes with anything, and he seems bewildered by all of this energy over a simple day on the calendar, just another one out of three-hundred and sixty-five.

"I don't get what the big fuss is about," he complains, fretfully wielding the remote, flipping channels so quickly that I don't have time to decide whether I would like to watch something or not. "Christmas is just a big, commercial orgy."

"Yeah," I reply. "And your point would be?"

I love the look Zeke gets when he thinks I'm being obtuse. He's wearing it right now as he declares, "This whole thing is a big scam — and don't give me some speech about the true spirit of Christmas because I don't want to hear it."

I point my gaze at the TV screen, which is about twenty years old; the larger, newer TV is actually in Frank's TV room, the one that he likes to pretend is a den. I don't know whether I am amused or annoyed by that. "Okay, Mr. Grinch," I reply blandly.

This appears to piss Zeke off even more. He's been on a short fuse this month, and I think it's rather fascinating that, between Zeke and Casey, it is Zeke who seems to be struggling more with his chastity. Of course he wants to make like he's nothing but logic and chemicals but he gives himself away with all the touching that he's been doing. And then there's the staring — but in this respect Casey has incriminated himself no less than Zeke. In fact, my function seems to boil down to watching them with gritted teeth as they moon over each other and wallow in their great, youthful passion. God, they're such teenagers at times.

But right now my function is to make it okay for Zeke to enjoy Christmas. He doesn't really know what to make of all this and he's just begun to realize what he's let himself in for, spending Christmas with the Connors. There has been no talk of him going to his mother's house, thank God. I think Frank muttered something about it several days ago, long before Zeke arrived, and Allison shut him down in a hurry. I don't know the whole story about Zeke's parents but I know it isn't very pleasant. And I know that Allison loathes Zeke's mother. It isn't obvious because she was raised at a time when young ladies weren't supposed to hate anyone, but I can tell. She has no intention of letting Zeke go anywhere.

I say, "You know, Casey missed Christmas the last two years."

Zeke frowns. "What do you mean...missed? I saw him here in Herrington last Christmas."

"The first year he stayed in Cincinnati at Roy's request but Roy ditched him, and last year Casey did come home for a few days but he left before Christmas Eve." I will not tell Zeke the whole of what I know about that terrible episode of Casey's life; that is for Casey to tell. "I think it really bothered him. They take Christmas pretty seriously in his family."

So I have Zeke in my power now. On the pretext that he's just doing it for Casey's sake, he will force himself to have a good time.

There is sudden noise and activity on the floor above us, announcing the Connors' return from the train station; Zeke and I hustle upstairs to greet the relatives. We find a knot of people crowding the front hallway. Casey's grandmother — her name is Carolyn but I am going to call her Mrs. Berringer, because that's how I was brought up — is in the midst of making some very long complaint about something that happened on the train, and I notice that a deep furrow has formed in Frank's forehead. He is bringing up the rear, dragging several large suitcases and barely able to get in the door because the entrance to the house is so congested at the moment.

"Mom," says the other newcomer, a small, slender woman in hippie-artsy clothing. "Please let it go now."

This must be Casey's Aunt Clarissa. She has a way of speaking that's almost too — too much for ordinary conversation; she sounds like she's been trained as a hypnotist. She has long, red hair — not her natural colour, I would guess — and wears orangy lipstick that is all the more shocking set against her perfect, almost gothically pale skin. She carries herself like a woman who knows she is very attractive, and I wouldn't be surprised if she's left a long train of broken male hearts behind her.

Catching sight of Zeke, she says, "Hello, you must be Zeke," and holds out her hand.

He takes it, somewhat bemused by the chaos. "Yeah."

"Oooh, he's a hottie, Case," she adds, and winks in Casey's direction. He's been hanging back a little, also hauling a suitcase.

"And I'm Sasha," I introduce myself. "Zeke and Casey's friend."

"I was just going to say you must be Sasha. I'm Clarissa."

"Um," Casey pipes up. "Where does this go?" He looks to his aunt for guidance as to whom the suitcase belongs to.

"Oh, Frank!" Mrs. Berringer exclaims. "Don't let him carry that!"

Understandably, Casey looks a little embarrassed.

"He's fine, Mom," Allison says.

"But if he's sick, he shouldn't ---"

"I'm only sick in the head, Gram," Casey interrupts.

After a long, nervous silence, Clarissa laughs and says, "That one's mine, Case." It is the kind of laugh that is completely free and generous, with no hint of mockery. Casey smiles back and this tells me that it's okay for me to add my own grin to the moment.

"We're going to put you in my den, Clarissa," Frank says, obviously needing a change of subject. "There's the sofabed there."

"Great."

"Oh," says Mrs. Berringer. "Where am I sleeping?

"You can have Casey's old room."

Now I have some renewed worry that I have displaced them, that they are unhappy — after all, from the perspective of the blood relatives I could be just some orphaned interloper with nowhere else to go for Christmas. But no one says any more on the subject. There is a certain amount of shuffling and organizing and then Mrs. Berringer announces that she is hungry. It is only six o'clock, but I soon learn that she's used to eating no later than five.

"I thought we'd order in some Chinese food," Allison says.

Her mother purses her lips but replies, "That sounds fine, dear."

"Oh..." Clarissa intervenes. "But Mom...you shouldn't have any MSG, remember?"

"Right..." Mrs. Berringer turns to Allison. "I can't have MSG."

Allison begins to look like her head might just pop off. It's interesting to observe these family dynamics, but I think it is time for me to make myself useful. "Let me whip something up," I volunteer and Allison looks grateful.

"You?" Mrs. Berringer says, her notions of the traditional division of labour firmly in place.

"Oh, you're a chef, aren't you?" Clarissa says. "I remember now."

"Allison, have you been talking about me?" I tease, making Allison blush.

Soon the family is clustered around the kitchen table while Zeke stands off to the side, listening. I assemble the ingredients for a quick supper while the relatives interrogate Casey, asking him about life in Seattle and his school plans. He is doing his best to answer; fortunately he has already rehearsed the "I'm changing to film" conversation a few times and can handle it. In fact, Mrs. Berringer more or less asks him all the same questions that Frank asked. Clarissa bucks the trend by being immediately supportive and even excited about Casey's new studies.

I realize a few things. For one, his aunt adores him, so she must be okay even if she does seem a little flaky. For another, it occurs to me that not only is Casey an only child, he's the first grandson and first child of the generation. Poor kitten. There's a lot to be said for having siblings and cousins to divvy up the expectations.

Inside half an hour I have served up linguine with sundried tomatoes, capers, olives, and feta, items that I purchased earlier in the week during a grocery outing with Allison. It is a bold and not entirely accessible offering, but it is met with general approval. Casey, I notice, picks out all the olives and the capers but eats the rest handily enough. Zeke wolfs his down as usual, and to my surprise Frank is barely less enthusiastic than Zeke. He even says, "Thank you, Sasha."

After supper we do nothing more momentous than descend to the rec room to watch TV. There is a line up of Christmas shows that no one is really paying attention to, but I recognize a couple of my old favourites — A Charlie Brown Christmas and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Clarissa and Allison talk about things that sisters talk about while Mrs. Berringer struggles not to nod off. Casey is curled close to Zeke on one of the couches, and I see Frank checking up on them once in a while. There aren't quite enough places to sit but I am happy to sit on the floor with my back to the other couch. In fact, I feel so happy right now that I could cry.

 

The next morning I find myself alone for a time, eating breakfast and contemplating the fact that it is Christmas Eve day. It is nearly ten but Casey and Zeke are still asleep, a fact that was noted with some disapproval earlier by Casey's grandmother; she has informed me that she is always up by seven in the morning. After bringing me up to speed, she compelled Frank and Allison to drop her off at the home of an old friend of hers; they are doing last-minute errands together but are to pick her up when they are finished.

I have taken my bowl of cereal to the kitchen table; I am staring out the window there when I hear a sound and turn to see Clarissa, wearing long, form-fitting pants and a rather skimpy t-shirt. I will say, objectively, that they look very good on her.

"Hi, Sasha," she says. "Everyone's sleeping late, huh?"

"Actually, Frank and Allison are both out."

"Doing what?"

"Frank's not done buying his gifts and Allison forgot to get a few things for dinner tomorrow."

"Ah." Clarissa goes to the fridge and opens it. She stares at the wall of food for a few seconds and says, "What could possibly be missing in here?"

"I think I heard her muttering about cream for coffee."

"Oh, Allison." Clarissa shakes her head. "She gets so worked up about this stuff. She just needs to take a moment and breathe."

I don't know why I feel the need to defend Allison, but I do — maybe because it's perfectly obvious who's always been the favoured sister, the more popular, glamorous, the most bragged about by their mother. "This Christmas means a lot to her. I think she just wants everything to be perfect."

Clarissa joins me at the table. She has only a mandarin orange, which she peels and eats rapidly as she talks. "But she's always been that way. The important thing is family being together, right?"

"That's true..." A sound from the direction of the living room makes me turn. I see Zeke standing there; our voices could have carried and woken him, or maybe he'd just had enough sleep for one morning. "Hey," I say.

"Hey," Zeke mumbles. He yawns and stretches, then says, "Where's Casey?"

"Sleeping, I think."

"Oh...well, I'm going to use the shower."

"Okay."

As Zeke goes up the stairs, Clarissa says to me, "You know, I think it's totally cool that you're a chef. I've always thought it would be a neat job."

"Well...I'm more a cook right now." I am distracted, a bit anxious about Zeke and Casey being alone upstairs — as absurd as that sounds. I have to struggle to focus on the conversation. "I work for an amazing chef, though."

"And someday you'll have a kitchen of your own to run?"

"I hope so..." I'm trying to talk and listen for sounds of movement upstairs at the same time. "...but I still have a lot to learn and I'm happy where I am."

"That's cool." Clarissa smiles briefly. "So how's my nephew?"

This forces me to concentrate on her. I don't know what she knows, but I decide to answer as though she's reasonably well-informed. "A lot better than he was in the summer."

"I'm so relieved to hear it. I haven't seen him in three years and I was kind of worried we were losing him. You know how sometimes people drift apart from their family once they've grown up." She chews and swallows orange sections, then pulls her feet up on the chair, crossing her legs there and it suddenly strikes me that she looks a lot like Casey. Her eyes aren't as startling as his — I think in that respect Casey has received the gift of absolute genetic serendipity — but they have similar features, the mouth and chin especially. She is also built small, like him. "He's changed so much since the last time I saw him," she sighs.

"Yes," I say briefly. "He's changed."

She looks knowingly at me. "We don't have to talk about him. I just want to know that he's going to be okay. There's a lot of negative energy around him — "

I am glad to hear new footsteps on the stairs, because I really don't want to get into any discussion of energies, chakras or auras. There are people who study alternative healing methods as a discipline, and I respect them, but there are many people who adopt the lingo without understanding or really caring about the science of it and they just come off — oh, what's the word I'm looking for? Affected. They just want to sound cool and it bugs me big time. To be fair, I'm not sure if Clarissa is one of them or not. I just don't want to go there.

We both look over just as Casey comes into the room, blinking sleepily. I've noticed he has a bit of a hard time waking up since he started taking Klonopin. I welcome him, "Hi, kitten. Do you want some breakfast? I'll make you something."

Casey shakes his head. "Just cereal...thanks." He fumbles around with bowls and boxes and cartons, then joins us at the table. That is when he takes in his aunt's get up. "Are you going to do some yoga, Aunt Clarissa?"

She smiles. "You bet. Can't miss a day, you know — did you want to join me?"

Casey glances at me. "I dunno," he says shyly.

She teases, "You only like to do it when your dad's around."

He smiles at her and I think, I'll bet this woman was the first crush he ever had. "Kinda," he answers.

"Why not do it, kitten?" I put in. I may have a thing about people spouting New Age bullshit, but I am quite aware that yoga is an excellent form of exercise. "I hear it's very relaxing...maybe it's just the thing for you."

Casey frowns slightly. Maybe I have been a tad too revealing of his personal stuff but I rather suspect that his aunt already knows a lot of it anyway.

"I'll do it too," I offer. "If there's room."

"We can make room," Clarissa says. "We'll just push all the furniture back in the living room. I only have one mat but the rug will do."

Not five minutes later when Zeke returns downstairs, it is to the shocking sight of the living room in shambles and the three of us in Downward Facing Dog position — on our hands and feet, hinged at the waist — while the sound of flowing and rushing water fills the background. Casey is a bit more flexible than I expected, but I have heard his joints cracking and snapping. Although Clarissa is a good teacher, I am having a tough time myself. This is harder than it looks and I have long arms and legs — but of course when Clarissa does it, it looks easy. She is obviously a long-time practitioner. She can fold her body completely in half or twist it up like a pretzel.

"What the hell?" Zeke says. Casey falls forward and stands on his knees, facing him.

"Shh..." Clarissa hums.

"Yoga," I say.

"I hope so," Zeke returns.

"You can join us if you like," Clarissa offers.

"Uh...no, thanks." Zeke disappears, for which I am glad because I don't think Casey would be able to do this with him watching.

We continue for another twenty minutes. I am sweating hard by the end but I feel incredible — energized and relaxed in places that I didn't even know I was tense. Clarissa puts an arm around Casey's shoulders and ruffles his hair. "There," she says. "Does that help any?"

"Actually...yeah," he says.

"Just remember you don't need to push yourself. Just do the best you can. The benefits are incredible if you keep it up."

He slips in closer to her and hugs her and I am suddenly so jealous I want to pack her bags for her and push her out the door. But this is ridiculous, Casey will benefit from the yoga, and he will also benefit from every little bit of affection we can give, individually and collectively. It's absolutely absurd of me and I decide that I will not have this feeling again.

A little while later, Allison and Frank return and do some puttering in their bedroom; the pile under the tree grows some more and the stockings begin to plump up. Casey and I have our walk in mid-afternoon and then all of us, even Zeke, get busy grooming the house — and lastly, we get down to grooming ourselves.

I love the lull that suddenly falls on the afternoon of the 24th of December. Earlier in the day people are rushing around in a state of near-meltdown, picking up all the things that they somehow managed to forget despite their determination not to be shopping on this day. Then suddenly around three o'clock the malls and the grocery stores empty out and the street traffic becomes almost nil. A quietness descends, broken only when people begin to venture out to distribute gifts and visit. As they move from house to house, their blood alcohol count increases in tandem with the good cheer, creeping ever closer to illegality...oh, but I am not going there. I am at peace with the world, until Boxing Day at least.

My gifts for everyone are now under the tree. Casey has spent a couple of hours closeted in our room, struggling with wrapping paper, and there has been a further accretion of tacky, glittery shapes under the tree. Allison, Frank, Clarissa and Mrs. Berringer have places to go tonight, while Zeke and Casey and I are waiting for it to be time to go to Stokely's. We make a pretense at eating some supper, knowing that very soon we will be stuffing our faces and losing all connection to a sense of hunger. It will be days before we remember what it feels like.

Around seven-thirty, we head over to Stokely's, bearing gifts. I know Casey has something for Stokely, and I'm pretty sure Zeke got something for both her and Stan. Weeks ago when I was doing my shopping I agonized about Stokely for a bit, not sure what she would be doing about me, and wishing that the whole business of making a list and checking it twice didn't have to be so diabolically complicated. In the end I got her a small box of high quality chocolates, which I have brought with me tonight. I will present it to her after Stan and Delilah are gone.

Stokely welcomes us to her family home, smiling exuberantly. She is wearing a festive, red sweater with a pattern embroidered in bugle beads and sequins. It has a retro kind of appeal, I guess. She hugs each of us, then directs us downstairs to the rec room. There I discover an entertainment centre that puts Zeke's to shame, not to mention a fully stocked bar that contains eggnog and rum and crème de menthe; plus Stokely has prepared a selection of snacks and hors d'oeuvres and sweets for us. Stan and Delilah are already in attendance, sitting together on one of the couches; Delilah gets up and gives Casey and Zeke each a kiss, while Stan passes out handshakes. I am encouraged to see that Casey seems to be in a fairly laid back and sociable mood tonight; however, I am not going dwell on it for fear of jinxing it.

"Uh, Stan...I hope I didn't get you in trouble," Casey says.

Stan blinks. "Trouble — ? Oh, you mean with my mom." He snickers then. "Don't worry about it. Usually I'm the good son and my brother Brian is the bad one. This year it's the other way around so he's happier than he's ever been."

Casey makes a pained face. "I shouldn't have said it."

Stan waves a hand. "Sure you should, Case. She's been terrorizing my friends since kindergarten. It's kind of a new experience being the black sheep of the family. I like it."

Casey looks aside, and now his high-functioning mood appears to be in some jeopardy. "I'm s-so...so sorry," he whispers, and I know this has nothing to do with what he said to Stan's mother. Although they have seen each other a couple of times since Zeke's birthday party, I guess they never really talked about what happened.

Hesitating at first, Stan puts a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, Case. Really. C'mon, let's get festive...okay?"

I am holding my breath as Casey nods; for now, the danger has passed.

Predictably, there are movies on hand and we are expected to choose one to watch. A Christmas Story. Miracle on 34th Street. It's a Wonderful Life. Lethal Weapon and Die Hard. "They're Christmas movies", Stokely insists of the latter two. Casey mentions Edward Scissorhands but gets nowhere with that; I saw that movie once and sobbed so loudly in the theatre that people asked me to leave.

Since Stan and Delilah can only stay for a while there is only time to watch one movie — so we vote. Zeke chooses Lethal Weapon and warns, "And you better not pick Die Hard, Stan." I guess he doesn't want to split their particular voting bloc.

When it comes to me, there's no question: I love It's a Wonderful Life. It's a surprising movie, I think, because it starts out a little sappy but at some point in the story you realize that you're watching something very serious and moving. I never get tired of it. I especially love the scene where George and Mary are trying to share the phone and converse with a friend while they are so agonizingly aware of each other that they can barely speak. Then George breaks and grabs her and says, "Now you listen to me. I don't want any plastics and I don't want any ground floors. And I don't want to get married ever to anyone! You understand that? I want to do what I want to do." And then he kisses her with total, absolute desperation and you aren't surprised that in the next scene she's wearing a wedding dress. I just love that.

Stokely proposes A Christmas Story. Casey looks torn, then votes with me. So it's now kind of down to Delilah and she smiles a bit nastily at Zeke and tips the balance in mine and Casey's favour. Zeke groans loudly.

"It's a classic," I protest.

"Is there something wrong with watching something in colour?"

"There is a colourized version," Casey says. "But it sucks."

I agree, "There's something not right about it."

We sit down to watch the movie. I don't think Zeke is as disappointed as all that, and especially not after Jimmy Stewart comes on the screen. At that point Zeke remarks, "Hey, I know this guy," and grins at Casey. Casey smiles back — and it has to be about that impersonation thing Casey mentioned in his big list. It just kills me all over again not to know what they're smiling about.

Oh, well. Some things are not meant for public consumption, I guess.

Very much enjoying my rum and eggnog, I am once more drawn in to George Bailey's life. Meanwhile, Stokely is having some drinks also but Stan and Zeke are both driving, and Delilah loftily declares that she doesn't drink alcohol. She sips a diet soda. I must say, I noticed earlier that she and Stokely are being excruciatingly polite to each other. Perhaps there is hope for them to be friends, although it seems unlikely. Not only has Delilah dated Stan in the past — in fact, she has dated every male in this room except me — but I am told that she used to be very nasty to Stokely on a daily basis.

Casey is not imbibing alcohol, of course, but he has his drug of choice — proximity to Zeke. When the lights go down they are merely sitting next to each other; by the time that Jimmy Stewart blows up at his Uncle Billy, they are practically in each other's laps and I am having a really tough time feeling peace and love for all mankind. Resentment is rising in me again, because they know frigging well that I'm not going to say anything in front of their friends and because I shouldn't be put in the position of having to get upset about something that should be harmless. It is harmless — except that it isn't and I'm pissed off because Zeke in particular should have enough respect for me not to flaunt his lack of restraint.

Once the final notes of "Auld Lang Syne" have sounded in the room, Stan and Delilah are getting up to go. Delilah kisses Casey and Zeke again before going and tells them not to be "too naughty." It can't have escaped her, or anyone in the room, how they are glued at hip, thigh, and everything else. Stan waves in a minimalist fashion to the three of us males, and a potent glance passes between himself and Stokely. She goes upstairs with him and Delilah to show them out.

I cannot seem to prevent myself from using this opportunity to let them know of my disapproval. I direct a very pointed gaze at each of them, first at Zeke and then at Casey. Casey reacts just as I would hope, going pink and staring at the floor, but Zeke returns my look with one of open defiance.

Stokely comes back down the stairs, rescuing me from the obligation to have words with my two friends on Christmas Eve. "Well, that went okay," she sighs.

"It was fine," Zeke says with an impatient frown.

"Yeah, except for how she was eying up Stan all night. And did you hear what she said about my sweater?"

"What did she say?"

"She said it was nice."

Zeke looks blankly at her.

"Like...what the fuck does she mean by that?" Stokely growls.

"Maybe she thinks it's a nice sweater?" Zeke ventures.

"You know she doesn't."

"Stokes, c'mon. She showed up, didn't she? She's trying...and it is a nice sweater."

"What do you mean by nice?"

Zeke begins to laugh, helplessly.

Casey pipes up. "So what if she doesn't like your sweater, Stokes? She doesn't have your...well, your style." Stokely is flummoxed by this, and Zeke and I are dangling without a sense of where he's going. Casey falters a little, then continues, "I...I think the sweater's cool, it's kinda like...you know, vintage." He glances at me for support.

"Yeah," I chime, finally cluing in. "Obviously Delilah's very stylish in a trendy way but she doesn't really have her own sort of look. I think she just wears what the magazines say to wear."

"But you have a look that's totally Stokely," Zeke adds.

Stokely lifts her hands, a grin taking shape on her face. "Okay, guys, you can stop trying to make me feel better now...please." She moves in toward Casey, unexpectedly. I can see him controlling his flinch as she hugs him, his body going rigid. His hands clench but other than that he doesn't move. "Thanks," she tells him, then moves away just as quickly. "Enough of my crap...let's watch another movie, huh?"

"Only if it's Lethal Weapon," Zeke says, folding his arms.

So the four of us watch Lethal Weapon. I don't really mind — Mel's not hard to watch. However, at some point during those two hours, I realize that I am getting hammered on rum and eggnog, which is a nasty, cloying situation. I switch to rum and diet coke. That's when I notice that Zeke has been doing something to the skin on Casey's neck with the tips of his fingers. He has his arm tight around Casey and is gazing fixedly at him, pinning him down with his eyes.

For the next forty-five minutes I get far too much enjoyment from of Mel's murderous violence and screams of rage. When the movie is over, I declare, "I think it's time to go home." My voice is shaking just perceptibly.

It is a short drive back to the Connor residence; on the way there, no one speaks. I have the distinct impression that a full-scale revolt is underway, but I have already passed from my earlier state of pleasant intoxication to leaden exhaustion, and I don't feel up to a confrontation. I slump in the back seat, trying to rub away my headache.

In what feels like mere minutes I find myself inside the house, having just removed my coat and boots. Casey and Zeke are there with me, all three of us standing at the foot of the stairs. It is almost midnight, early for Christmas Eve; no one else is home yet. I am dizzy, desperate for bed, and fully expecting Casey to banish me to the couch and take Zeke upstairs in my stead. Or they are both about to disappear into the basement, or the bathroom, and if they think that I'm going to stop them, they are wrong. If they want to fuck each other up for all time, I am ready to just let them do it.

Casey begins to speak, and I brace myself; I look past him, at his high school graduation picture that is hanging just behind on the wall.

"I — I th-think I'm — going to — to bed."

My gaze jerks away from the photographic to the real life Casey. As I watch, he shares a long look with Zeke, possibly the four-hundred and seventy-fifth yet today and easily the most intense. I have no idea what it all means, other than that Casey has chosen to care about my opinion.

Zeke knows it, too; he is scowling openly. "I guess I'll just step outside for a smoke," he says, and makes a point of shrivelling Casey with his glare. He turns his back before Casey can say another word. I would very much like to smack him. He is the one who proposed abstinence, he is the one who took the lead there. I can't figure out what's going through his head — and, at this particular moment in time, I'm not really interested.

"Good idea," I say. "I'm beat — wasted, actually. Let's hit the hay, kitten. Sooner we get to sleep, the sooner Santa will get here."

Casey follows me up the stairs, his feet dragging noticeably. Even in my current stupour I can see that slow stillness in him once again; he foregoes brushing his teeth and gets in bed, closing his eyes with a sad little sigh. After performing my ablutions, I get in too. He comes to me right away, snuggling up against my chest. I stroke his hair, knowing that I won't be able to stay awake for more than a minute. "Zeke just misses you, kitten," I mumble, my eyes closing.

I am just barely aware of Casey nodding before I am down for the count.

 

Some time later, I swim up from a rum-hazed sleep. My mouth is dry as dust, and repulsive with a combination of booze, garlic, onion and pepperoni. After some minutes of lying in complete darkness trying to decide if I should actually get up and brush my teeth so I can stop offending myself and fall back to sleep, it occurs to me that something isn't right.

Casey is gone.

I almost jump up and shout the alarm — but then I don't do anything except roll over on my back and put a hand over my eyes. I have realized that I know exactly where Casey is. I guess I'm not surprised.

Since I'm now officially hungover and no longer drunk, I seems that I can think. I now realize that there is only one thing about this situation that is surprising — and it's me. I don't know why I'm taking everything to do with Casey and Zeke and sex so personally. Earlier this night, I was furious and hurt and resentful; I was so upset that I didn't care who knew it, and for a while Casey actually feared my disapproval more than Zeke's.

Well, I am having an interesting moment. I think some would say it's the dark night of the soul. I'll just say it's my second annual wake-up call.

And here comes the revelation, although it probably won't be much of a revelation to anyone except me: I lied when I said that I was okay about losing Jerry. I am not okay. I am absolutely, totally not okay, and I might just, in some tiny, mean little place inside me, put some of the blame for it on Casey. Not consciously, of course, but every time I see him and Zeke together, every time I see them being in love, there is a little black spot on my heart that starts throbbing. It's crying out that I deserve a boyfriend who loves me whom I can love in return, and for that matter I deserve a couple of loving parents who are willing to take care of me and who want to make a nice home for me to come back to at Christmas, even if I am gay, so why do I have none of these things, why am I giving every last bit of myself to a person who already has all of it —

Fuck and double fuck. Apparently, I am full of crap. I like to act noble and self-sacrificing but inside I am a venomous stew of ill will. I am an imposter.

"My poor kitten," I whisper. He tried to apologize for all this stuff that isn't really his fault and I brushed him off — then I went ahead and blamed him anyway. "I'm so sorry."

Sorry isn't enough, though, and regret isn't the same as making amends. Maybe I have just achieved something like self-understanding, but there is always the question of what to do with it. Well, for a start, I can stop blaming others for things that really are my responsibility. There is some hope for me, I suppose, since I already know this in my conscious mind; it is just a matter of dealing with the little dark Sasha lurking in the back corner of my brain. Hopefully the simple act of throwing some light on him is making him wither and die, but I'll have to keep a sharp lookout for him. You'd think that something so ugly would be easy to spot, but I guess I've already proven that this isn't necessarily so.

So, I say to myself. What to do about the fact that Casey and Zeke are downstairs together at this very moment, taking into account that I run the risk of being a resentful prig all over again? Ahem. It is now time for Sasha to have it out with Sasha.

They wouldn't actually do anything when Zeke is sleeping on the couch in Casey's parents' living room — oh, but then, maybe they would. They may be that eager, the hormonal little brats.

But...it's Christmas and they're in love.

Okay, but love doesn't fix everything. Sorry, but it doesn't. If it did, we wouldn't need these rules. It's been getting to the point that Casey is getting hurt and if they don't take a break, it will probably get worse. Casey needs time to sort out a few things. Dr. Yves must know this. She obviously approves and she's the professional.

Hmm. Let's try for a little perspective, shall we? Casey has been trying so hard and hurting so much. Would it be so bad to let him have a few hours of safety and happiness, even if it's wrong for him to place so much emphasis on that one act?

And it's Christmas, and they're in love.

On the other hand, what if they aren't in love at all. What if they're just co--dependent? I know that Zeke is definitely obsessed, and Casey...well, Casey is more or less a sex addict. There's nothing romantic about that.

Yet I can't believe that it's all bad and wrong. I've seen the love. I have. It's being put to the test in the worst way and it may not survive but for now it is there.

And then again, what if they really are having sex in Casey's parents' living room, and they really shouldn't be — how far am I to take my role here? Am I really going to be the sex sheriff? Because that is so not what I want to be. Do I see myself sneaking down there like some perverted Grinch to yank them apart no matter how embarrassing it is?

No, I do not. Like I told Zeke, there are limits.

And I finally feel at peace. It only took an hour or so of tossing about and wrestling with the nastier parts of myself — but I can now sleep.

I wake early, long before anyone else is stirring. The first thing I do is visit the bathroom for a piss and a toothbrushing and gargling. Very much restored by these measures, I head downstairs with my bag of stocking stuffers. And I will admit that despite last night's epiphany, I am somewhat apprehensive as to what I will find there. Because there is still something to worry about; I am not going to make the mistake of backing off altogether as I did once already.

The scene is right out of a magazine: A tall tree with lights glowing, tinsel sparkling, a pile of gifts, a row of lumpy stockings. And sure enough, Zeke and Casey are cuddled up together on the couch. They are both fully dressed, not that that means a thing, arms and legs tangled, a blanket covering them.

I creep over to the stockings and somehow manage to jam my tidbits in despite the fact that the stockings are already more or less full. Then I sit down and watch over Casey and Zeke as they sleep.

The darkness has passed, to be sure, but a part of me asks if this is really a life. Another part of me answers — yeah, it's a life, but it certainly isn't wonderful. The thing is, I've long since given up hoping for something truly extraordinary. When I was a little boy and believed in magic — that was another story. Nowadays, I believe that there are certain kinds of wonderful that I am entitled to expect, much more pragmatic, practical kinds of wonderful that could include a family of my own making and a boyfriend whom I don't really have the time or the energy to love. And let us not forget the kind of wonderful that is in knowing one has been absolutely indispensable in getting friends through hard times.

Oh, for Christ's sake, I don't know why I'm feeling all this angst, and on this day of all days. Here, this is more like me: This situation is temporary, I'm sure that a year from now Casey is going to be another person altogether and then I will just be a very good friend. I'm no fool, I have no expectations of perfection. I'm not like Zeke that way. But I can hope for something good. Something...sustainable.

I am not making a sound but somehow I have disturbed them. Zeke opens his eyes; Casey has his face turned away and his cheek flat against Zeke's chest so I can't see when he wakes, I only see him stir, not long after Zeke begins to move. Zeke lies there blinking slowly, remembering his surroundings, then turns his head far enough to see me. I immediately see that he feels no shame whatsoever about being caught with his hands in the cookie jar, as it were.

"Hey, Sasha," he says, and clears his throat. "What time is it?"

"Ahhh...around eight."

"Why are you up so fucking early?"

"It's Christmas!" I indulge in a little bounce. "There are presents to open, you know?"

Zeke stares at the ceiling. "Sasha...you're acting like a kid."

"So?" I reply.

At this point, Casey squirms, trying to find a way to get upright, and Zeke is forced to sit up or push him off the couch. They reorganize themselves while I wait and watch; when Casey's eyes find me I say, "Good morning, kitten."

He mumbles, "S-Sasha...you're...um, g'morning." And he looks caught, which to me is not a good sign but then, I have to remember that he will tend to feel guilty even when there's nothing to feel guilty about.

"Kitten, would you would make some coffee?" I request. "Since it's Christmas, I think we can even let you have a cup."

Casey has to know that this is a pretext to get him to leave the room for a second but he complies, going into the kitchen. I hunch down, getting a few inches closer to Zeke, and whisper, "Don't jerk me around and don't debate with me. Did anything happen that I should worry about?"

He gazes back at me, completely unruffled, and says, "No, Sasha."

"Okay. Merry Christmas."

"Um...yeah, Merry Christmas."

Perhaps he doesn't believe that I am willing to let it go at that, but I am. I will believe him.

In short order, Casey is back, shuffling in like he's waiting to be chastised. I give him my most cheerful smile. "Okay, kitten."

"O-okay...?" he echoes.

I figure I might as well be explicit. I say, " I'm not angry."

It takes him a few seconds to realize that I am really not going to give him shit. When it does sink in, he smiles back at me in that splendidly charming way that he will from time to time, and then settles in beside Zeke, closing his eyes to catch his last few zees. In the background, the coffee has started to burble.

Right about the time that the smell starts wafting up the stairs, Casey's parents appear. They both look hungover to me but they make no complaint about the early hour. There is a chorus of good mornings and Merry Christmasses. Frank collapses into the love seat with a groan. "Ugh...Casey, how do you feel about getting a coffee for your father?"

"Oh, me too," Allison pleads, sitting down beside her husband.

Casey pops up to get it. Zeke rolls onto his feet with, "I'll help," beating me to it.

They are in the kitchen for a while, during which Aunt Clarissa and Mrs. Berringer make their appearance, and there is another chorus of We Wish You A Merry Christmas. Some rearrangement of seating is necessary to make a comfortable space for Mrs. Berringer.

By now I am actually about ten years old and I can't wait to find out everything — who got what for whom, how they react. This is not a material thing. I see the selection of gifts, Christmas or otherwise, as an exercise in how well we know each other. Everything I give to Casey, or Zeke, or Allison, is a message from me to them. And the same from them to me, even if they don't know it.

Casey and Zeke return from the kitchen, bearing several mugs of coffee; the pot must be empty already, and Zeke announces that they have already started a second batch. I receive my mug of joe, and commit a minute or two to enjoy watching Casey take two or three long sips from his own. His eyes close in pleasure.

"Is it good?" Zeke asks, smiling at him.

"Oh, yeah," he sighs.

I inquire, "So what's the system?"

"System?" Zeke echoes.

"Does everyone take turns opening or is just a free-for-all?"

Amused, Clarissa replies, "First we all open our stocking stuffers together and then for the rest we take turns. We go from youngest to oldest."

Zeke punches Casey on the arm, very lightly. "Your idea, I'll bet."

Clarissa returns, "Actually it was. He was seven at the time, but he's been benefitting from it ever since."

"Not really," Casey defends himself. "Brittany and Noah were usually here...and um...Michael, he would be the youngest now."

I know that he's just playing along but from her expression, Clarissa isn't sure that he's not truly upset. She hastens to reassure him, "I know...I'm just kidding."

"Well!" I exclaim. "Let's get to it!"

I get up and remove each stocking from its place, distributing them. The excavation of my stocking takes some sweat; things are jammed in so tightly, most of them small, oblong items wrapped in a mosaic of bits of paper and ten layers of tape to hold it together. After some picking and peeling, I uncover one orange, one fancy truffle, a baggie of Christmas-tinted M&M's, a miniature bottle of Jack Daniels, a small sachet of gourmet coffee, another baggie of homemade shortbread cookies tied with red and green ribbon, and a package of mint gum, which I will undoubtedly need. To everyone else's stocking I have added tiny jars of red pepper jelly, Thai spice rub and orange-ginger chutney, all made by yours truly.

"Let the eating begin," I sigh to myself. I glance over to see what Casey is getting — because if he has received alcohol and coffee, I may have to confiscate them. I'm pleased to see that whoever is the Booze Santa, they have skipped Casey. Instead, he has an assortment of teas, some that I have never heard of. I think the latter must be from Clarissa.

"Wow...Thai spice rub..." Allison remarks, turning the jar around in her hands. "That's really different. Is that from you, Sasha?"

I nod.

"Did you make it?"

Very demure, I nod again. If fact, I made them with Jerry at his apartment, almost two months ago now. For some moments I am lost remembering how we had a very good time over it, eventually devolving from a very orderly operation to a game of tag around his kitchen, which then further degraded to another kind of game.

And now I am back at the Connor residence and it is Christmas morning and I have no Jerry. I forcing myself to be the upbeat, stoic Sasha that everyone has come to expect, and make note of the renewed expressions of interest and enthusiasm for my little jars of savoury goodness. I think it must have been assumed that I bought them or something, even though they are labelled in my own handwriting.

"What do you use it for?" Allison asks, looking stressed as she peers at the contents of her jar.

Frank snorts. "You rub it on things, obviously. Like meat."

I think I am astonished.

I put my own stocking goodies aside and approach the mountain under the tree. Careful to avoid triggering an avalanche, I dig up and distribute three or four gifts for everyone. Because I'm every bit as childish as Zeke accuses, I make sure that for himself and Casey, one of those gifts is from me. While I am doing this, I discover a very large, heavy and nondescript rectangular gift from Casey and Zeke, to me. It will be the first gift that I open; I hold it on my lap while I wait for it to be my turn.

There were several gifts from Frank and Allison to Casey, but the one I brought to him is the one that looks the most fun. It is the right shape and weight for DVD's; it turns out to be a collection of Orson Welles' films. I wonder if they rushed out and bought this after Casey came home and had his talk with them, or if they had already gotten it. They had to know he liked movies before, but I can't imagine they would have thought to buy this. Casey is speechless at first, but he manages to thank his parents in a breathless, shaky voice. I see his eyes are a bit glimmery and I have to think stern thoughts to keep from going that way myself.

Next it is Zeke's turn. He too is opening a present from Frank and Allison and I am absolutely on the edge of my seat with wondering what they have come up with. Inside the small, flat box are a pair of fine, leather gloves and a scarf, both of which are understated, very much in Zeke's style — and a pair of flannel pajamas.

"Thank you," he says, looking funny.

"Are they okay?" Allison asks.

"They're — great. Thank you."

My turn. I tear into the package from Casey and Zeke.

It's a conglomeration. There is a large saucepan, a replacement for the one that got ruined a while ago, and a second one, even larger than the first. They are both chef's grade Langostina, heavy, jewel-shiny and absolutely beautiful to my eyes. A wrapped CD-shape turns out to be a collection of jazz standards, in complete and shameless violation of copyright. It is a home-made CD but someone has gone to some effort to design a cover and make it look professional.

"This is wonderful!" I cry.

"Casey did that," Zeke says. "I take no credit."

"But how did you — know which — ?"

"Research," Casey says, as though it were obvious.

And there's more — a silver envelope containing a certificate for a full day's pampering at Ummelina International Day Spa in downtown Seattle. I am starting to feel a bit overwhelmed. "Oh, my god...thank you — " I start.

"Wait, there's more," Casey says.

I realize that there is something else clipped to the certificate from Ummelina's. Revealed, it turns out to be another certificate, the text printed in a romantic, scrolling font, all designed to look very official: Redeemable for one multi- course candlelight dinner for two at 1680 Findlay Street. Meal prepared, served and cleaned up after by Chefs Casey Connor and Zeke Tyler. But the message from them to me is: We know and appreciate everything that you do, Sasha. Thank you for making our apartment a home. Thank you for putting up with everything. We love you.

Well, I am a self-confessed cheeseball. I have no option but to cry — but I intend to make it short and not too sappy. Of course, Casey rather spoils my plan by jumping up to hug me; as a result, I nearly lose it completely. I focus on Zeke who is just rolling his eyes and this helps me to contain myself.

It turns out that Clarissa is the eldest child in the family, so Casey's parents are next. They open their gifts from Casey. He has gotten his mother a very attractive silk scarf and new addition to her ceramic Christmas village. For his father, there are two tickets to a Seattle Seahawks game. I guess Casey fibbed a little when he said he didn't start shopping until a few days ago; this stuff took advance planning and consideration. Once again he has surprised the hell out of me.

Frank seems quite moved by his gift, by the way. He does the man thing, coughing and going red and saying, "Thanks, pal. Thanks. We're going to go...you and me, right?"

Casey nods. "So...you like it?"

"Of course I like it."

"Good," Casey says. He bites his lip then says in a rush, "Because I used your credit card."

He is obviously trying to be irreverent and funny — obvious to me, that is. There is a pause, a sustained breath while everyone waits for Frank's reaction. Then he laughs, and Casey looks almost shaky with relief.

I have known for some time that I am having the privilege of observing a love story unfold — and I'm not talking about Casey and Zeke. I'm talking about Casey and his father. It always makes me ache a little, just like it's doing now. Inevitably, my thoughts turn towards my own father. How I ridiculed him at times. How I never really attempted to show an interest in his interests. I happen to know that my father loves taking things apart and figuring out how they work, but I never bothered to let him know that I understood him. I was an arrogant, know-it-all teen- ager, a stage that Casey appears to have skipped entirely.

While I am reflecting on life and the universe, Clarissa has taken her turn. From her sister and brother-in-law, she has a beautiful new sweater and a pair of silver earrings that seem very much to her taste. She puts on the sweater over her sleepwear and declares that she is going to get the freshly brewed coffee and refill everyone's cups.

It is now Casey's grandmother's turn. She has uncovered a basket from Hickory Farms, full of meats and cheeses and crackers. She seems quite pleased, although it isn't something that would have been my first choice to buy as a gift. But then I know it can be difficult to buy for the elderly sometimes, because they seem to already have everything they could possibly want or need. the family know her I guess and they must know that she has a thing for Hickory Farms.

I must have Casey open my gift now.

"Kitten, open that one," I beg, pointing to the two-tiered set of rectangular packages, all in gold.

He gives me another of his sweet little smiles and does as I ask. The first, small box contains a pair of earrings, because I know he would never in a million years get them himself. They are very plain, small silver rings that I have seen on many a male, not terribly expensive either. I don't expect him to wear them both; just one would be the way to go, or two in the same ear. I view them as an experiment and if he doesn't ever wear them, so be it. I'm not going to tell him that, however.

"You got me jewellery again," Casey says, with a faint grin. He gets it. I'm not so certain that Frank and Zeke get it; they are both scowling.

"That's right," I reply.

"I didn't say I would get my ears pierced."

"Well, it's either that or the eyebrow waxing, kitten." I'm having a great time, but I think I may have milked this entertainment as far as I can. "Go on, open the other."

It is a much larger, heavier item and I'm sure Casey knows it is a cookbook long before he opens it. The title is Just Like Mom Used to Make. It's a comprehensive archive of recipes that Casey — and I, if I am perfectly honest — would remember from childhood. "Here's the deal," I say. "You choose one recipe every week from that book and I'll make it for you."

Casey is flipping through already. "‘Tuna casserole?'" he says in disbelief.

"Yes."

"Sloppy Joes?"

I swallow the desire to howl. "Yes."

"Peanut butter marshmallow squares?"

"Whatever you want."

From the expression on Casey's face, I think we may just have moved beyond truce to full detente on the food front. Of course, I have not said that I will stop attempting to expand his culinary horizons and he hasn't said he won't try new things. The day will come when he is ready to leave Cheese Whiz and Tuna Helper behind — but not yet. In the meantime, I will make sure he takes a multi-vitamin.

"I suppose I should open this one?" Zeke wonders, tapping his present from me.

I am equally interested in Casey's gift to him, but I quickly nod my head. For Zeke, I have gotten an electronic subscription to the American Journal of Speculative Philosophy, which mercifully I won't have to pay for until January at the earliest. Just so that he doesn't get an empty box from me, I have also gotten him the latest edition of Trivial Pursuit, but this is really a gift for the whole gang — including me, I'm sure. The game goes over even better than I expected; both Casey and Zeke seem eager to pull off the plastic and crack open that box of cards. I guess I don't really grasp the fun in collecting obscure facts, but I enjoy their enthusiasm for it.

We go around the room again, and for his next turn Casey chooses his present from Zeke. I see Zeke watching him, trying his darndest not to appear eager, because...well, he's Zeke. There is to be no untoward or unfounded sentimentality around him.

Casey unwraps a digital camera — a "Canon EOS 20D", and whatever that means I know one thing: It's expensive. I think Frank is the most impressed of the lot of us. He keeps saying, "Wow...pretty neat, pal...pretty neat." Casey looks stunned; I think he sometimes forgets that Zeke can pretty much buy whatever the hell he wants. "Most of the reviews say this one's the best," Zeke notes. He looks a bit flushed. "For...for amateur photographers."

"I...don't know what to...thank you." Casey hesitates, leans in and kisses Zeke, just alongside his mouth, not quite on his cheek. The parents more or less avert their eyes, while the grandmother feels free to make a disapproving noise.

"Mom," whispers Clarissa.

Zeke ignores it; I know him well enough to know that this is an act of politeness. "You can use it in Los Angeles," he says to Casey. It comes out a little bit questioning. He is not looking at me either, and this is not politeness. "Maybe you'll snap a shot of a celebrity."

"Right..." Casey has already turned the box over and is reading the back.

Zeke nudges him. "Can I open mine now?"

Tearing himself away, Casey answers, "Oh, yes."

Casey's present to Zeke is contained in a very large gift bag and camouflaged by tissue paper. Zeke sticks his hand in and comes out with another homemade CD. This one has only a black gradient pattern on the cover, and no title; nor have the songs been identified. "What's on it?" Zeke asks, turning it over several times.

"You'll have to listen to it," Casey answers, with a certain thrum in his voice that suggests things to remain implied. The effect on Zeke is instantaneous; I have to clear my throat to remind him that he's right in the middle of a task.

Next, he pulls out several books: The Random House-Webster's College Dictionary and Thesaurus, a dictionary of philosophical terms, and a book discussing the philosophy of The Simpsons.

"Awesome," is Zeke's comment. "So does this mean I can't get your editorial services anymore?"

"Um...unless you don't want me to..."

"Of course I want you to," Zeke says. I see him squeeze Casey's hand before he dips into the bag one more time. "Is there any more down here?"

"Sorry — "

"Geez, Zeke," I say, teasing mostly.

Zeke lets the bag drop. "I'm just kidding around. This is awesome...thank you."

For me, the climax of the morning has been achieved but there are still many gifts to open. Casey receives a yoga mat from his Aunt Clarissa and a shirt from his grandmother; from his parents, more clothing, and a watch. Delilah also has given him clothing, a shirt and tie that I know Casey would never pick out for himself but will be absolutely stunning on him; Allison remarks that he might be able to wear that to the wedding and I wonder if there isn't some sort of conspiracy at work. Stokely has given him twenty-five dollars for the movie theatre, and Stan has surprised me by giving him a book of Ansel Adams prints. I sense Charly's hand in this again, and so does Zeke, I would imagine, but he doesn't say anything.

Zeke has, in addition to what Frank and Allison already got him, has some warm socks and a desk-side coffee-cup warmer. From Stokely, he has a novelty ashtray, made out of lavarock or some such.

The Connors have given me a handmade sampler quilt; I adore it immediately, not because it is particularly to my taste but because it seems to have been carefully chosen to suggest affection and warmth. From my side, I have given them a large fillet of smoked salmon from a specialty shop in Seattle. Zeke got them $100 in gift certificates from Sojourn, which will get them started on a nice dinner. It is clearly expected that they will be visiting soon.

Casey gives his aunt and grandmother each a small gift basket of smelly bath products, and apologizes that he couldn't give more. They tell him not to be silly, so I don't have to.

"Hey, Sasha," Clarissa says as she crawls around rounding up a few stray packages. "There's another one for you here."

It's a small box that I have been fearing greatly — Jerry's gift. Before leaving Seattle I went back and forth in my head about whether I even wanted to bring it with me; I eventually just stuffed it in my luggage. Then once I was here, I debated whether I should put it under the tree. No gift ever had such a long, tortured journey to reach its destination, and as much as I may fear that box, I am also desperate to know what's inside it. I open it quickly.

The only thing inside is a sheet of paper. In Jerry's handwriting, it says, Dear Sasha, I hope you are having the wonderful Christmas that you deserve. I am at my mother's right now with my family and I wish the very same for you. I will be here all day, probably. If you want to call and wish me a Merry Christmas, the number is 206-555-6924.

Staring at the note, my mouth moves almost involuntarily. I hear myself request, "Can I use your phone...um, Frank, it's long distance but I'll pay for it."

"Don't sweat it," Frank says, obviously feeling magnanimous.

Trembling, I go into the kitchen and dial the number of Jerry's parents' house. "Hello?" says a young voice.

"Hi...um, may I speak to Jerry, please?"

Without covering the mouthpiece, the child at the other end screeches, "Jerry! It's for you!"

There is a wait, and my heart pounds. I am not usually nervous about talking to anyone but I am right now. My hand sweats and I have no idea what I am going to say.

"Hello?"

"Jerry...it's Sasha."

"Oh," he says.

"I...I'm at the Connors."

"Oh...that's good."

Well, this is just brilliant. I try to drive up the ambient wit on the line a few levels. "I just wanted to say Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you too."

"Are you having a good time? Did you get some good stuff?"

"Yeah...thanks for the wine. I can't believe you did that."

I bought him a bottle of 1990 Chateau la Tour Cabernet Sauvignon. It's not a wine that a person will be able to enjoy every day unless they are either very lucky or very rich. I blurt, "Will you share it with me?"

"Huh?"

He's obviously feeling at a loss right now. I explain patiently, "I would like to share that bottle with you."

"What are you saying, Sasha?"

The moment has come when I have to take the risk that every person in the house is eavesdropping on me and, in a moment, will know exactly what I'm up to. I throw integrity, nobility, and caution to the winds and proceed at full volume: "I'm saying...I don't want it to be over."

Jerry's breath catches audibly. I must go on before I can lose my nerve.

"I'm saying I want to keep trying. Maybe it won't work out but I want to try and you're completely free to tell me to fuck off of course but...I'm saying I don't want to lose you, Jerry."

There is silence.

"What do you think?" I ask, and my voice shakes slightly.

He is still not talking.

"Um...babe? I could really use some sort of response right now."

From a thousand miles away, Jerry says, "I want to keep trying too."

"Oh..." And now I falter. The tears come in a rush and I have to fight them back just so I can speak, so I can let him know without delay how relieved, how happy I am feeling. If I weren't on the phone I wouldn't have this problem; if I weren't on the phone I would be able to just throw myself into his arms and — anyway, I have to talk, I have to tell him now, immediately: "That's so...that's really good. I'm really, really...well, glad."

"Me too." He, too, sounds like he might be struggling with emotion. "When do you get back here?"

"I'm..." I clear my throat. "I'm working a shift at the restaurant on Thursday night...my flight gets in that morning."

"I'll call you."

"Yes, please..." Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and feel something like contentment for the first time in...quite a long time. "Hey, babe, guess what? Zeke and Casey are going to cook a gourmet dinner for us."

A pause, then: "Are they?"

"That's what the card says."

"That should be interesting." Jerry pauses. "Actually, I think it'll be great."

And it is this moment when I finally know that I love him.

 

For brunch, there is a southwestern-style egg and ham strata, lovely cinnamon buns and a festive fruit salad. I find that I am hungrier than I've been in quite a while, and eat with gusto, earning a huge smile of appreciation from Allison.

Once the wrapping paper has been cleaned up and everyone has groomed and dressed, there is always the question of what to do next. There have been invitations to visit here and there, but Frank in particular doesn't want to go anywhere. He and Allison have a brief conversation about it and she agrees that she is perfectly okay with sticking around at home.

It is a quiet, perfect, peaceful day, the kind that I haven't had for months and months. Casey plays with his camera for quite a while, reading through the manual and getting familiar with the various bells and whistles. He takes practice shots of everyone; I know he must be an excellent photographer because I look good in every single one. I sip eggnog — minus the rum, today — and join Casey, Zeke and Clarissa in a game of Trivial Pursuit, occasionally wandering into the kitchen to offer Allison some help. Frank sneaks off to his den for a while to watch TV until he is caught and castigated. He rejoins us in the living room, listening in to our game and watching his son interact with everyone. I also observe Casey as he sits next to Zeke on the floor; he is fully participating in the game and only losing focus once in a while when no one has paid attention to what he's doing for a bit too long. I have agreed to let him and Zeke be team-mates this time, and they are absolutely slaughtering Clarissa and me. But that's okay. They're having fun.

It feels so normal, so tame and wonderful that I start to get a little nervous. Where are the panic attacks, the outbursts...or, going back to my earlier life history, where are the alcoholic debates, the bickering and the blood? I have no choice but to conclude that this is the best day that I've had in a long while. And I'm not trying too hard either. I know that I can do that sometimes...but that's not what's going on here.

The game wraps up all too quickly. Casey and Zeke are campaigning for a re-match but Clarissa and I are completely beaten and demoralized. I am about to suggest that Casey and Zeke go head to head when Frank puts his hands down on his knees, stands up and announces, "Casey...I think it's time for a driving lesson."

Casey looks stunned. Then he starts to stammer. "I — but I — right now?"

"Why not?"

"I already taught him," Zeke announces.

"Oh...I see."

Frank looks just about as devastated as I have ever seen. I am about to throw Zeke one of my patented, busybody looks, but he goes on, exemplifying the generosity of which he is very capable when he wants to be, "But we just had the one session...he's not ready to do the test or anything."

Brightening, Frank says to Casey, "Come on, pal. You need to learn how to handle the winter conditions. When I was a boy, my dad took me out one day after it'd just snowed."

"Um," Casey says. "I don't know --- "

"Sure you do, pal. Come on, you can't panic every time your wheels fishtail a little."

I am a little bit nervous on Casey's behalf although I'm not sure why. Perhaps a little concerned about safety. I wish I could invite myself along...but Casey would probably rather not have an audience. And he is safe with his father; for one thing, Frank's car has to be one of the heaviest vehicles on the road. I must satisfy myself with fussing over Casey, making sure he wears his new scarf; I tie it for him, making a jaunty, stylish knot at his throat. "There," I say, sending him out, "Just like a Gap ad."

I return to the couch, sitting down next to Clarissa. Zeke is on the floor on the other side of the coffee table, fiddling with pie pieces. "So do you want another game?" he asks, without very much enthusiasm.

"Uh...I don't think my ego is up to it," Clarissa says.

Zeke shrugs. He is looking positively gloomy all of a sudden.

"Something the matter?" I ask.

Zeke glances at Clarissa, who quickly declares an intention to go help Allison in the kitchen. Once she is out of the room, he lowers his voice to a hiss and demands, "Why did you get him earrings?"

"Why not? They're just for fun."

"But it's not like you're with him."

It takes several seconds for me to get my head around this, and then something clicks into place. I've been with Casey almost non-stop lately and Zeke's been shut up in his room without access to any of his usual methods of reassuring himself that Casey is his. I can't believe I missed this, but then, why wouldn't I? It would appear that figuring out human nature hasn't been my strong suit these past few weeks.

I say it as kindly as I can: "Don't be jealous."

His head jerks a full quarter-turn to avoid looking at me. "I'm not jealous."

I don't bother to argue; I merely raise my eyebrows.

"Why would I be jealous of you?" he says.

I shrug. "I don't know...and believe me, I am the last person you need to worry about. Sure Casey is hot stuff and as far as you're concerned he's irresistible but trust me...I can resist. I have no problem resisting."

There is something eating Zeke, that's for sure. I know that he is "the jealous type" but he and I both know this is ridiculous. And yet here he is being completely sullen. He won't even look in my direction.

"Zeke, c'mon," I coax, trying cute since reason has failed.

"You didn't have to buy him jewellery."

Okay, now I am fed up. "For Christ's sake, you can buy him jewellery too if you want."

"I don't want."

"Well, then, get over yourself."

"Sasha..." Zeke finally turns his head and it is hurt that I see, not anger. "It's just...you're the one he trusts."

"He trusts you too," I protest, utterly baffled. "Are you kidding? He trusts you."

Zeke just shakes his head. I don't know what thoughts or insecurities he's harbouring, but they are doing a number on him. Like Casey, he is need of some hard evidence.

I say, "Remember back a few weeks ago when he had that terrible panic attack? I was freaking out, I was going to call an ambulance...and you were the one who calmed him down. Not me. I was useless."

Finally, something I have said is having some impact on him; some of the heavy misery is lifting. "Right," he says, swallowing hard. I am just in the midst of working on something else I can say to pacify him when Clarissa returns to the living room. "Everything's under control in there!" she says brightly. She has yet another orange in one hand, and a Ferrero Rocher in the other. If there is to be more to this conversation, it will have to wait until another day when there are fewer relatives around.

A couple of hours later, Frank and Casey return from the driving lesson, and they are both smiling. They tell us that they went to the deserted mall parking lot, and Casey learned how to spin the car a full 360 degrees like a Hollywood stunt driver. He also learned to parallel park, but obviously that's of far less relevance to him.

Christmas Dinner is very good, although very traditional: turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, and of course, sweet potatoes. There is a little more novelty to the other side dishes. Again, I surprise myself by being hungry. It is probably because my stomach has been stretched to twice its normal size; I can literally feel myself expanding as I eat. I resolve to resume eating like a normal person tomorrow, but in the meantime I will enjoy the jellied salad and the honey garlic carrots and the chocolate Christmas pudding and the nuts and the shortbread and yes, I will even enjoy the fruitcake.

Later, I decide that I am in need of an after-Christmas-dinner walk. I make inquiries and no one looks interested. "I'm going to help with the dishes," Casey says, and Zeke adds quickly: "I should help too." So I end up walking by myself.

It is actually very pleasant to be alone. The air is crisp and invigorating, very cold — no snow falling tonight. There are many tidy little houses decorated neatly with lights and wreaths and bows. Some are absolutely classy; others are sentimental without being tacky, and then others are just tacky. And I enjoy them all. I do laps on the sidewalk, up and down the Connors' street, using perhaps twenty or thirty of the ten thousand calories that I have ingested.

It's a stupid thing to do maybe, but I find myself thinking about what my parents, siblings, relatives are doing right now. Most likely cleaning up after dinner, just like here. Once the clean-up is over, many of them will leave, move on to other parties or just go home to digest. My sisters and brother may go out in search of good will, leaving my parents alone. He may kiss her on the cheek and wish her a Merry Christmas now that there is no one around to see it, then settle in his armchair to nod off under the weight of too much food and booze. I know they don't talk about the fact that I'm not there, but I do wonder if they ever think about it. I think they must.

Softly, barely above a whisper, I speak the words that I have not uttered in eight years: "Merry Christmas, Dad. Merry Christmas, Mom."

And then I turn and walk back to where I belong.


	7. Chapter 7

The image before his eyes looked remarkably familiar...the face that he had been seeing for years, features that moved in a peculiar tandem with his thoughts, a mouth that sounded off to the involuntary stimulus of neurons igniting. It was a thing that was known — yet apart from him. No doubt Dr. Yves would tell him that it was normal to feel this way. No doubt this shit happened to everyone once in a while; sooner or later everyone took a glance at themselves and felt that disconnect between the I in his head and the it in the glass.

Or they could just forget about checking with the mirror altogether. Casey couldn't actually recall the first time he had noticed that everything around him seemed to have been drained of authenticity. Once in a while he tried to dredge up a memory of that moment, as though that would somehow sort him out; he thought that he had been very young, probably a kid. Whenever it had started, he figured that it was like noticing something that was true and scary and once his eyes learned to apprehend that truth, they could never unlearn it. They could just forget to see it for a while.

Okay, then maybe it wasn't the experience itself so much as it was the frequency of it, and the abnormal was merely the normal taken to extremes. Suffering from existential doubt once a month or less could only mean that you were a participant in the human condition. On a regular basis...okay, perhaps that made you unusually neurotic. But suppose that every time you peered in a mirror you wound up in a state of panic — it was not good news for your viability as a functioning human being.

If he had been in a movie or a music video, this would be the moment where he smashed the mirror and bled artistically on his parents' cream-coloured floor. Hearing that terrible sound, his lanky, action-oriented boyfriend would break the door down and find his disturbed lover bleeding — not fatally, but in a volume sufficient to be poetic. The boyfriend would then fell to the floor and cradle his lover, crying loudly but attractively, pouring words of regret and adoration.

But Casey wanted to believe that his reality was a bit less melodramatic — marginally, at least.

As he watched, his features stretched and reformed into a toothy imitation of a smile then immediately flattened, returning to their previous contours. "I'm here," he whispered, watching his mouth make those shapes. "I'm here...I'm..."

I'm standing in the bathroom working myself into a dither when I just came in here to take a piss.

He averted his eyes from the mirror and washed his hands with the brown sugar and vanilla hand soap that his mother currently preferred — yes, the olfactory nerves worked, and the soap smelled good. He dried his hands on red and green festive towels that were thick and soft. He could feel that too, and why wonder about it, why think that the messages he processed in his brain were no real proof —

"Oh, just fucking stop it," he told himself.

He returned to his room — not his old bedroom, Zeke would be sleeping there tonight now that Aunt Clarissa and Gram were gone — but the extra room that he was sharing with Sasha, the one where he and the iron had once gotten to be on very close terms. He'd certainly felt that; it was a bright, biting memory etched out of a mash of sensations and moments from late August. It was kind of funny, but touching too, how his dad had been in such a big hurry to remove the ironing board when he and Sasha first arrived, like his dad didn't want him to be traumatized by the presence of the iron or that pile of wrinkled clothing that was fated to become its next string of victims.

Or maybe he was just concerned that Casey might burn himself again; that was much more likely. Both of Casey's parents had been attentive to the point of smothering during this visit. They had even asked Casey's permission before they went to the Day After Christmas Open House at the Johnsons' just down the street, the same party that they had attended every single year since time immemorial. He'd been very careful not to sound too eager when he told them it was okay. It was nice that they wanted to spend time with him this holiday and he wouldn't mind their company at all if they weren't radiating that constant, fitful worry. He already had Sasha drowning him in solicitude and the cumulative effect of all that concern — plus the contributions of his aunt and his grandmother over the past few days — was to put Casey in a not-so- constructive frame of mind. He occasionally wondered, half-seriously, if he should do something to give their anxiety a really solid rationale.

With his parents out of the house and nothing on his social agenda, Casey wondered if this might be the ideal time to delve into that collection of Orson Welles' films — except that right now Sasha and Zeke were in the rec room and they were very likely debating The Casey Situation under the camouflage of the Emeril Holiday Marathon, or whatever was on...Casey could hear the television chattering in the basement, not loud enough that he could make out the program but well enough to be sure that it was doing a fine job of obscuring his friends' voices.

They must have started their discussion while Casey was out with his parents earlier, accompanying Aunt Clarissa and Gram to their train; when the Connors returned, Sasha and Zeke had made a brief, furtive appearance in the front hallway and then quickly subsided once again to the basement. If and when they required Casey's participation, he expected they'd come looking for him.

So he might as well catch up on some journalling. He'd promised Yves that he'd continue it while he was away, and he'd like to think that he was capable of keeping at least one promise.

The spiral bound, red-covered journal — his second now, the first one had been filled in early December — was on the floor next to his side of the bed, slipped halfway beneath. Casey draped himself across the bed, hanging briefly over the side to retrieve it, then rolled up into a cross-legged position. He opened it at random and, as often happened, was lured into re-reading his previous entries for a few minutes.

December 20th

Zeke didn't phone last night. Sasha's making like it's probably nothing but something has to be wrong, Zeke always phones and I can tell Sasha's lying. Oh, I can just hear Yves now. "You don't know what Zeke is thinking so there's no point in assuming the worst, you're making your own stress. And even if it turned out to be what you fear, you would live through it. It may seem impossible but you can do it, you won't die from being alone or being afraid, your heart will keep beating, you'll keep breathing and you WILL be fine."

Fuck you fuck you fuck you. FUCK. YOU. Just suppose for a second that it's possible to die from being alone, that it could hurt so much that your heart actually stops. Just consider it, how about. Yeah, I know what someone like Zeke would say. He would say no one dies from being alone unless they will it to happen. He'd be right, I guess. I remember when Roy told me it was over, it seemed like I couldn't breathe, like I really was dying but the truth is my organs kept doing their job as usual. The thing that a person fears most can happen and the machine just keeps pumping away, doesn't it? It's total betrayal.

There has to be a reason that I'm not freaking out right now, and I'm pretty sure it's pharmaceutical. Sasha asked me yesterday if the Klonopin was helping me, and now I know it's doing something. It feels strange, like I'm more clear and more fuzzy at the same time. I've actually had whole minutes here and there without thinking about how everyone might be an alien but then when I remember, I'm more certain than ever. I feel quite sure that someone is going to grab me but instead of running away my body just stays still. I don't know if this is a good thing. I still think the same thoughts. Everyone still might be one of them and Zeke is still going to leave me but I'm not so READY for it as I was before. Thank you, medical science, for helping me to meet my fate without all that embarrassing bitching and moaning.

Of course, Klonopin doesn't count if someone actually does touch me. That's a whole other thing.

Due to some interruption that Casey no longer remembered, the entry stopped there. He paused to listen to house noises for a second and having determined that all was exactly as it had been a minute ago — parents partying, Zeke and Sasha deliberating in the basement — he turned the page to December 21st.

Zeke arrives today. I hope. He told me he was celebrating the other night but I don't think so. I think he's still hurt and upset and that's why he was getting shitfaced. If we could just fuck again it would be better. When we do, he'll remember one reason why he's with me, and he won't look at me that way he was doing, like he expects something and he's mad because he can't have it. I know he wants me, he just wants to punish me more. At least I only have to put up with it until January 3rd although maybe he could be convinced to . And to think that for the first two weeks it was almost easy. I can't say this to Zeke or Sasha, evereverever, but there were a bunch of times during those weeks that Zeke touched me accidentally or just hugged me and I wanted to punch him and run away. I'll never let them know that because it doesn't matter, that was just me being angry over nothing. Of course, if he actually said he wanted to fuck, I would have torn off my clothes and assumed the position.

That was all for December twenty-first, and he'd missed December twenty- second altogether. It had seemed that after Zeke arrived, he had much less free time — which was ridiculous since they'd done little but hang around the house eating and watching TV, but upon a casual survey the past several days seemed thoroughly action-packed. After all, they were filled up with Zeke being here, Zeke being with him, Zeke looking at him, him looking at Zeke...oh, and his aunt and grandmother had arrived around that time too.

He turned to the last thing he had written, back on the 23rd of December.

I feel so empty all the time. I need it so much, ever since he got off that train it just gets worse every day. The crazies are getting the better of me. Whenever he looks at me I feel hot all over and I go a little insane, thinking about what he might want from me and how to be whatever he wants and how to make it okay for him to have it. Except Sasha is AROUND absolutely all the time and I can't disappoint him. Not when he gives me so much, not when he and Jerry have just broken up because of me. Sasha said it isn't my fault. Yeah, right.

I know Zeke would say this is something I should talk to Yves about. Fuck you. Well, I did tell her that Zeke and I are having a little break from sex and she seemed happy with that. It didn't seem necessary to tell her any more than that and she didn't ask. I think she's trying to figure out what to do with me right now. We had four sessions after the Big One and we've never really gotten around to talking more about the aliens, not yet. The session after Zeke's party I felt so depressed I could barely talk but she kind of forced me to tell her what happened. So I told her how I totally ruined his birthday, how Zeke found out that I told her about the aliens. She couldn't do much with me and to tell the truth I can't remember much else from that session. Yves has said that the reason I felt so low that day was partly because of all the sedatives in my system, and I did feel a little more awake the next day.

She also said she didn't know what to do about my alien story, that she had to "think about what it meant". That doesn't sound good. It may turn out that Zeke is completely right and I shouldn't have told her. He usually is right, but I just don't know what else I could do if I wanted to keep going to see her.

Shit, I just realized something. I DO want to keep seeing her. I want to tell her things, and there's something very soothing to me about the way she talks, so calm and uninvolved. I don't know when this happened. I don't think Zeke would like it.

So at the next session after that I was back to my old, panicky self. I went on and on about Zeke and Winona and how he must hate me and how terrible I am, how I was dreading being separated from him and terrified about L. A. All we did from then right up until I left for home was damage control, but she told me that when I get back from L. A. we have to sit down and work out some goals and a plan for me. We took up one whole session making that stupid list. And it is a stupid list because even though it's all true, it's also just dead wrong.

I can't stop thinking that it's happening again, just like with Roy only this time it will be worse. Zeke probably spent that whole time while we were apart thinking about how peaceful it was not having me around. Right, he acted happy to see me but he's so angry. And I'm NOT mind-reading here, it's pretty obvious that he's still pissed. And why would he be angry about that, Yves? Let's see, I disobeyed him, I ignored his advice and I hurt his feelings. I'll bet he's remembering about how it was before I was in his life, how things were so much more tidy and manageable.

Zeke would say I'm irrational, that my thinking is all messed up by Roy. He would say I need to talk to Yves about "how I am about sex" instead of aliens. Okay, so I know maybe some of the things that happened make me act a bit crazy sometimes but I know some things in me have changed and can't be changed back. I admit that I used to be a more logical person. Not at Zeke's level of course, but not quite so insane either. I don't think I'll ever remember how to think that way again. Maybe I'll learn to go around without being afraid, go to school, do everyday things but I don't think I'll ever be "my old self", whatever that was. I'll always have this THING inside me and to tell the truth I don't think I want to lose it. Being able to see and feel something different, sometimes it feels like the only thing I've got going for me. So what if I'm afraid of being touched and I can't stand being around most people. It doesn't matter because I only want to be around Zeke and Sasha. And my family, I guess, and a few friends. And I would like to go to school.

Zeke and Sasha will never get that. They would say that's no way to live and I need to confess to all the terrible things that Roy did so I can get over them. But what if the most terrible thing might just also be the best thing that ever happened to me? Like I remember once when Gabe was holding my arm up behind my back and he had me down on the ground and it was hurting so much I was afraid I would break my arm if I moved, and he was saying all these things to me, calling me a shitstain and cocksucking sissy but I suddenly had this moment where I felt so, so sorry for him. Because I understood him but he'll never, never understand me. So from the outside it looked like something bad was happening but I had this moment of realization and it was beautiful.

Casey rubbed his neck, pondering what he had written. He had been in quite a philosophical mood three days ago — and he had to wonder what Yves would do with it if he told her that story. Or what if he told her about one of those times when Roy was holding his arms so hard and biting his neck while he fucked him and he had been begging Roy not to stop because it felt so good. In fact, the only thing that had hurt was having to come back to the so-called "real" world where stuff like that had to be judged. And, of course, it had hurt that Roy left soon after and Casey remained sore and bruised and helpless with his own incompleteness, knowing very well what the world at large would think of him and unable to change anything.

Now he had fallen to sitting absolutely still, with his journal in his lap and his pen in hand. He was staring at the wall, at the same brass-framed triptych that had hung in this room as long as Casey could remember; it matched the maroon and black theme of the curtains and bedspread. He didn't know what the medium was — his mother had probably bought it at K-Mart and it wasn't a watercolour or a print or a photo but the image depicted a pseudo-oriental landscape. The wall itself was a bland colour that probably had some overwrought name like "sand water" or "oatmeal dream". Basically, it was beige.

Blinking several times, Casey put his pen to work, watching the lines take shape through a film of hot moisture.

December 26th, he scrawled. He wiped his eyes and tried to Reflect on the Positive — that was his assignment from Dr. Yves, his tribute to Stuart Smalley as it were. Every day, he was supposed to start by writing down all the things that had happened that were positive, or at least neutral. And he could engage in that exercise, sure, just as he was capable of acting happy at Christmas. The secret to lying, after all, was simply to temporarily convince himself that the lies were true. No one had more practice at that than he did.

What a fucking show I put on yesterday. If they gave Oscars for faking Christmas spirit, I'd have a dozen already. Not that everything was terrible, far from it. Being around everyone all day made it easy. I didn't have to say much, just join in whatever was going on. I could forget everything for a while because — well, I had to. It was the least I could do for everyone.

And I'm still playing along, or at least I tried to until this afternoon when we took Aunt Clarissa and Gram to the train. Aunt Clarissa was sad that they couldn't stay longer, she said, but she had to get back to Santa Fe for work. She told me she wished we had more time to talk. I don't know about talking, but it was good to see her again. It was kind of neat to do yoga too, it's not easy but it seemed a lot more relaxing than relaxation therapy. I remember when I was little and she still lived in

The pen was on the fritz. Casey shook it and tried scribbling a shape in the upper corner of the page. There was some improvement but the ink still didn't flow in any way that gave satisfaction.

Herrington. She was around a lot then and I thought she was IT. I don't remember much else, except that she always wore that really bright lipstick and I used to believe that her lips were naturally that color! It was nice to see Gram too, although I've never really felt like I know her that well. She lived here until Grampa died and then she went to live with Aunt Clarissa. I remember thinking that she was very stern and scary when she came to visit. I don't think she approves of me much. When I kissed Zeke in front of her she made that disgusted sound. I guess it's a bit much for her to take but I have to say, I don't much care what she thinks.

Here's some actual good news, Yves. Sasha and Jerry are back together. I heard Sasha talking on the phone to him yesterday morning. Everyone heard him, actually, but Sasha didn't seem to care. I'm very relieved of course, which is totally selfish of me because it has to do more with me not feeling guilty than Sasha being happy. Although I do want him to be happy. Of course, wanting him to be happy didn't stop me from breaking the rules, it just required me to do it when he wasn't looking. I don't think he has any idea, probably because he's so good and honest and always wants to believe the best about me. He assumes I'm much less of a slut than I actually am even though he should know better after I told him about

Casey's hand stilled. Some things were too shameful to be put on paper.

It wasn't like he hadn't tried to be the Casey that Sasha wanted; he had been good for entire weeks...well, except for when he and Zeke got overwhelmed when they were saying goodbye that day...and that other time when they were reunited in the train station...and the looks that he would give Zeke when Sasha wasn't watching, or at work....okay, he was a miserable, conniving little shit. Maybe he had done nothing overt, nothing that Sasha could have caught him at, but he had gloated inwardly every time Zeke seemed close to caving. Incredible that Sasha seemed to feel that Zeke wasn't trustworthy; Zeke was the strong one, as always.

Casey resumed writing, his hand shaking so much this time that his script degenerated quickly into near illegibility.

Yves, you said above all to be honest with myself when I write in here, and so here it is: I'm a hopeless slut. I need men, any men. I manipulate and twist things around to get what I need, I lie, I whine, I try to get under Zeke's skin, and I'm not even sure that I love him. I'm nothing, and the only thing that stops me from knowing that is to disappear for while, which is why I have to go begging and manipulating and whining to those men. You will say I'm exaggerating and distorting but

Christmas Eve I

I tried to

I almost broke Zeke.

 

It was no revelation to Casey that Zeke was severely discontented. Casey had seen it and felt the brunt of it long before he and Sasha left Seattle, but it seemed like Zeke got off the train in Herrington with an edge that had been honed deadly and sharp; every day he seemed more bitter. By Christmas Eve, it was obvious that he was ready to do something outrageous. With every disapproving expression of Sasha's, Zeke's hands became a little more intimate, a little more daring. Casey was sure that he could have Zeke that night if he wanted — he knew Zeke the rebel, Zeke the bad boy who liked to play at being a criminal. He knew that Zeke, in his heart, still wanted nothing more than to stick it to the establishment.

Sasha had weapons of his own, though; without even speaking he let everyone know of his misery at having to be what Zeke was rebelling against. If Zeke fucked Casey then Sasha would feel that he had failed, and he would promptly blame himself, Zeke and Roy, in that order — anyone but Casey.

So it was that Casey found himself standing in his parents' front hall at the conclusion of their Christmas Eve, backpedalling from everything he'd implied earlier at Stokely's. For those few hours he had luxuriated in Zeke's touch and basked in the greedy stare that came with it. He expected Zeke to be angry by his about-face once they were home, but he was jolted all the same by the glare that came his way. It was need and anguish, it was rage and resentment and it might even have been hate. It was a ferocious split second before Zeke stalked out the front door for a cigarette and it left Casey quaking.

As he got into bed with Sasha, Casey was trembling and anticipating a cuddle as some slight compensation for what he had just sacrificed — but the rum and eggnog put Sasha down almost immediately. Instead of offering comfort, Sasha collapsed, mumbling something about how...Zeke misses you, kitten...

Meanwhile, Casey and sleep were not getting along. There were images that had gotten purchase in his head, clawing away at any pretense of repose — of Zeke downstairs, Zeke alone and separate and blaming Casey, Zeke typecast in the role of the villain when he really wasn't like that. Zeke misses you, kitten... Like that was supposed to help. Zeke missed him... then Zeke should have him and he didn't know what everyone was trying to protect him from anyway. It was like they all expected him to only ever feel wretched, like joyful oblivion was off the menu. It wasn't fair and he sincerely couldn't remember why it should be that way so finally, near the middle of the night, he carefully removed himself from the bed and crept downstairs to the living room.

Days ago, Casey recalled, he had conceived a warm, fuzzy feeling whenever he was in this room, especially at night with the walls cast in the glow and shimmer of the lights glinting off multi-coloured decorations. This room was Christmas, transported straight from childhood. He'd been enchanted by it — but now there was only one thing in it with the power to enthrall him.

He padded over to the couch and knelt down beside Zeke, who appeared to be deep in sleep. He looked upon Zeke for what could easily have been an hour, submerged himself in the familiar, strong features. Every once in a while he would get down close and take a long, voluptuous sniff. He could easily wallow in the fragrance of Zeke, the sweet spiciness that was a whole greater than the sum — not just the combination of aftershave/shampoo/soap/deodorant, but something simpler and still more exotic. From time to time as he knelt there, Casey would almost convince himself that he was bold enough to lick Zeke's skin.

Casey's dark presence must have permeated Zeke's sleep, for his eyes popped open suddenly. "Casey!" he gasped. He lurched upright, propping himself on one elbow, blinking hard. "What's...wrong — ?"

"Nothing," Casey murmured.

Zeke remained braced on his elbow, gazing up at Casey. He rubbed his eyes once. "Something," he corrected softly.

Casey swayed slightly on his knees.

A tiny frown formed in the corners of Zeke's eyes. "What?" he whispered.

Gravity accomplished its work; Casey listed towards Zeke. His body collapsed inwards, sinking down and into Zeke's chest. His mouth sought blindly for some flesh to adhere to and made contact with Zeke's jaw.

His arms were clamped by a pair of iron bands — they would cleave him and pull them apart and his mind screamed no — but they did not, rather they brought him closer still, claiming him, crushing him against Zeke's body at an awkward angle...so he worshipped his way around the jut of the chin towards something even better, a tremulous and receptive opening. Finding it, he tried to implode his entire self and deliver it there. That place was slick and a little sour but still delicious, seeking to envelope him, grinding into his even as he sought it in return.

But now something wrenched it away from his mouth, moving him back with an inexorable pressure, tearing a whimper from his throat. When his eyes cleared he was several inches away, staring at Zeke's hands on his arms. They were holding him steady, waiting for him to catch his balance — but he didn't want his fucking balance. He would be unbalanced and content if he had any say in anything at all.

Zeke edged his body upright against the back of the couch while he rotated his legs, removing himself further from Casey. "Fuck," he whispered, gasping.

Casey had let his hands fall open at his sides, helplessly brushing the tops of his thighs. "You can," he mumbled, barely able to get the words past the feeling in his chest. "You can..." tear me open erase me consume me "...you can..."

Zeke shook his head as his chest heaved and he wiped at his mouth, erasing Casey. "What...What are we doing?"

It was a baffling question, but Casey figured that he could state the obvious if that was what Zeke wanted. "Kissing," he answered, and honed in on Zeke's lips once more.

A hand on his chest absolutely interfered. "Yeah," Zeke said slowly. "I get that."

Apparently, Zeke had more ways of saying no than anyone Casey had ever met. He abandoned his advance, knowing finality when he heard it. He didn't quite know what he was going to say or do in response — until he heard himself laugh.

"You think this is funny?" Zeke asked.

"Oh, yeah," Casey returned, with a slight giggle.

"Well...I don't."

"C'mon, Zeke...first I push you away, then you push me...every time I'm ready, you're not, and every time you're ready..." He shook his head, unable to press the hysterical grin off his face. "It's funny."

"Or you could say lucky," Zeke suggested, but he didn't sound like he believed it.

Casey's mirth departed as abruptly as it had arrived. "Lucky for you, maybe."

"Casey — just don't, all right? No outbursts, no arguments."

"But why won't you — why not?"

Zeke slid sideways, presumably to make room for Casey on the couch. Resting his elbows on his knees and his forehead in his hand, he produced a smothered groan. "You know why not. We made a promise."

"You promised. I had no choice but to go along."

"And you've been very good about it. It's a good thing you pulled back earlier tonight because I was having a bad moment...I couldn't have stopped myself."

Feeling the sting of missed opportunity, Casey rose stiffly from his knees and perched himself on the couch next to Zeke. "I know," he said.

Zeke lifted his head and pierced Casey with a look.

"I'm sorry about that," Casey fumbled. "I didn't mean to — to — "

"Yank my chain?" Zeke said mildly, but there was nothing at all mild in him. He finished Casey off with his bitter stare, then saved him from having to muster a reply by answering himself. "I suppose you're entitled — and backing off was the right thing to do."

"I — I just — "

"Case...forget it, okay?"

"I couldn't — not — "

"I said forget it."

"— not with Sasha there."

"And since when do you do everything Sasha wants?" Zeke demanded, catching Casey entirely by surprise.

"I — I don't."

"It kinda seems that way to me."

Casey faltered, "I don't want to disappoint him."

"Huh."

"It's just...Sasha and Jerry broke up."

Zeke didn't appear terribly sympathetic. "Did they?" he said only, tilting his head and considering Casey.

"Yeah...Sasha's trying really hard to act like he doesn't mind and be merry for Christmas but he's not..." not happy, and it's my fault.

Zeke pronounced, "If you do something — or don't do something — do it for your own sake, not because you want to make Sasha happy."

As though Casey were a free agent who made all his own decisions, as though Zeke weren't continually making decisions for him. Still, Casey would make what he could of the statement. "Okay, then," he said. "Then I want to fuck...right here, right now."

"Casey," Zeke said. "That is not what I meant at all."

"No one's watching. No one has to know."

"I would."

"But I'm better now," Casey pleaded. "All the bruises are gone and it's been more than three weeks..."

"Case...you have no idea how much I want to buy into that."

He lightly fingered the drawstring waist of Zeke's pajama pants. "Then...why can't we...Sasha's asleep..."

Zeke captured his hand, put it gently aside. "C'mon, Case. This isn't what you want...you're just looking for an escape right now. You'd be sorry by tomorrow."

"No, I wouldn't. I really wouldn't."

Zeke chuckled bitterly. "Okay, you wouldn't...but I guess I would."

Casey wrapped his arms around himself and spat, "So it was okay when you decided you wanted it but now that I'm asking you have to say no so you can be in control. You always have to have everything your way."

Zeke heaved a sigh that seemed nothing to do with anything like tolerance. "You're right, I guess."

Remorse wasn't immediate, but when it came it was just a small part of the whole, of a feeling so absolute and rotten, so completely awful that Casey could barely move. His insides were running with black tar and he croaked, "I'm sorry, Zeke...I'm so..." He couldn't even finish saying it. So sorry, his mind whispered. Sorry for everything I am, everything I've done.

His head was down now but he felt Zeke shift beside him and heard the annoyance in his reply. "Stop apologizing. You've said that over and over, it's enough. I don't want to hear it — " In mid-sentence, something changed. Zeke coughed and went quiet. Casey glanced up and saw that Zeke seemed to be staring at him with a keenness that should have been reserved for peering through his microscope. "But there's something I'd like to ask," Zeke finished.

"What...?" Casey said, his gut beginning to churn.

"I need to get something cleared up...I should have before because it's been bothering me and making me act like a bastard and that's not very fair to you. I should get it off my chest and be done with it." In direct contradiction to these words of judicious intent, however, Zeke's eyes were getting hard and hot. Accusing.

"Wh-what is it?"

"Do you remember way back in September that day you snuck out to get a coffee from Zorba's...I saw you talking to this guy there...he's black, has a sort of Caribbean-sounding accent?"

For an instant, terror froze every cell in Casey's body — then, adrenaline rose and swamped him, providing him with the capacity to respond. He nodded, composing a frown that — he hoped — resembled vague curiosity.

"Have you run into him since then?"

There was only one other occasion in Casey's life that he could remember thinking this quickly — a monster from outer space had been chasing him at the time. In that heightened state of consciousness he had been able to run, bearing in mind that the soles of his shoes were wet and slippery and he didn't have time to fall on his face and mentally scanning the layout of the building ahead of him, all while visualizing potential weapons and strategies that involved maximum use of the few scat pens he had left. He'd known when he entered the gym that he was going to try what he had tried. He didn't know how the idea had come to him — just that he needed it and it had arrived.

This situation felt nearly as dire, and he replied, careful to sound appropriately anxious as though he were only distressed to be challenged about something so apparently insignificant. "I — I think I've seen him on the street a few times."

"Did you talk to him?"

"Maybe...why, Zeke?"

Zeke sucked a huge breath, still watching Casey narrowly. "Because I ran into him the other day. I think he's nuts. He looks like he's living on the street and he sounds really out of it..."

The new data was non-stop and Casey couldn't process it...Thomas living on the street even though he'd been sleeping in his car before and he seemed to have enough money to survive, he had his business...but he did seem to be unwell and ogodogod what had he said to Zeke what had he told him, Zeke might just be waiting to see how far he could lie before he got caught —

Casey shoved those thoughts far from consciousness, where they couldn't distract or agitate him. He needed absolute clarity now.

"...he mentioned you, Casey. He said you've talked."

"Oh."

"Oh? Is that all you want to say?"

"No — just — I did see him in Zorba's a few times and he would say hi or something. I — I don't know what happened, why he's —

...what did he say...what else did Thomas say...

"So you had to answer him?"

...what else did he say...ogodogod tell me no don't tell me...

"He helped me before, Zeke. He was nice."

"Did you have to tell him your name?"

"He asked me so I just told him — not my last name."

"And you didn't bother to mention this to me."

Casey let his shoulders slump and his head sink. "I knew you'd be upset."

Zeke went silent for a long time, assessing Casey who could only wait to find out if he'd just lied himself into a confession or if Zeke had accepted it. Casey couldn't fathom how he was managing to sit here with his vital organs stuttering and still cooly conclude that his developing narrative didn't require him to be too casual because it was perfectly in character to become a little hysterical right now. "Zeke..." he started, not sure what he was going to add but figuring that some embellishment was needed.

"It's okay, Case. He kind of accosted me on the street and implied a bunch of things that I knew I shouldn't take seriously. I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions, I should have just asked you." Zeke shrugged. "Just being a total prick again."

"You're not!"

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Zeke replied with a wry smile. He twisted his body to dip his head low, where he could meet Casey's eyes. "Hey, do you think there's room for the two of us on this couch?"

"You said you don't — want — "

"If you're going to remember everything I say, at least remember it accurately. We're not going to fuck but I think we can manage sleeping together for one night without losing control." Zeke lifted his hands and, contradicting the sternness of his words, cradled Casey's face, brushing his cheeks with his thumbs. "I always want you with me."

"Oh."

"I'm wiped...and you do look like you could use some sleep, Case."

"Yeah...I just...I just need to...to piss."

Zeke snorted. "You don't need my permission or anything."

Casey nodded and bolted off the couch and up the stairs. His legs were shaking so badly that he could have just folded there in the hallway — but he needed to get into that bathroom, just in case Zeke was monitoring his footsteps and calibrating his position. He went in and shut the door, not bothering with the light. He let his legs crumble under him and sat on the floor, hugging himself into a tight, quivering shape. The analytical part of him was still functioning beyond all expectation, passing on the requisite information. It told him he had no more than five minutes to make the mental arrangements necessary to sustain his lie.

Again, absolute need drove him to get it done. Over the next few minutes everything that he had just told Zeke was transformed into the emotional truth. The crux of it was that, since Zeke had not asked him outright if there was anymore to his interactions with Thomas, he was essentially no more of a liar than he had been fifteen minutes ago. Fifteen minutes ago he'd had his equilibrium with that, and now he must have it back. He would not dwell on this conversation or he would be done for. Once he walked down those stairs, the thoughts associated with this subject would be scoured from his immediate consciousness. It was a matter of survival.

After what felt like a suitably short length of time, he got up off the floor. He flushed the toilet and ran the water as though he was carrying out his normal ablutions, then returned the living room.

It took some major contortions to make them both fit comfortably on the couch without loss of circulation; in the end he was almost lying on top of Zeke although Zeke didn't seem to mind. He claimed that he could still breathe — in fact, he was breathing a lot...and rapidly, his skin pouring heat. Casey could almost feel the blood raging beneath the surface, and he didn't fail to notice the hardness at Zeke's groin as they lay there. He knew he was supposed to ignore it, just as he was ignoring his own.

"When we're in L.A..." Casey whispered.

"Yeah..." Zeke answered warily.

Los Angeles wasn't a topic that Casey was particularly keen on. He was very keen on what he could get from Zeke while in another city thousands of miles away from Sasha, but otherwise for the past three weeks he'd been doing his best not to think about it. He'd packed extra clothing for that leg of the journey but he'd ducked the topic every time Sasha or someone else brought it up. The important thing, the thing that he kept in mind as constantly as possible, was that Zeke wanted him to come with him to his father's wedding. Zeke needed him.

"Think about it," Casey murmured, nuzzling Zeke's throat. "No Sasha, no one else around...just us." He moved his leg slightly so as to cause a bit of friction against Zeke's cock. Zeke's pulse jumped under Casey's lips; his body stiffened.

"Let's not think about that now," Zeke said, shifting just enough to put an inch of space between the strategic parts of their bodies.

"Why? You said one month and the one month will be over...on the third, right?"

"Something like that."

"What do you mean?" Casey started to lift his head, straining as Zeke's loose embrace pressed lightly on his upper shoulders. "But you said a month."

"I just think..." Zeke said. "It feels silly to do this by a calendar. The important thing is how you're feeling."

"I told you how I am," Casey sulked. "If that's the measure then we could be fucking right now."

Zeke's hand made a swirling motion on his shoulder blade, like that of a parent desperately trying to calm a fussy infant. "Case...what I want to do right now is sleep. Okay?"

"Okay," Casey muttered. He wasn't exactly comfortable with letting it go, but he also knew it was paramount that he not push Zeke to the point that he started questioning the schedule he'd imposed. One month's penance, Casey could do. He could not do more.

He traced nonsense patterns on Zeke's chest for a while, listening to Zeke's heart clamoring in his ear. To his surprise, his arousal began to lessen a bit as fatigue finally asserted itself. A sense of security and calm, not unlike what he felt at times when sleeping with Sasha, diffused his body; he managed to get a few hours of sleep. When he opened his eyes it was Christmas Day, and for the next twenty-four hours all of his thoughts were occupied by the project of having a merry time.

 

"Reflect on the positive, Casey," he mumbled to himself. "Reflect on the positive...reflect on the positive." It was the mantra of Dr. Helen Yves, and it so happened that it was a good way to keep his avoidance mechanism in good working order. In his opinion, avoidance was fucking underrated.

When his hand had more or less stopped shaking, he wrote, I want to change. I should be able to change. Look at my dad. If he can change, anyone can. That sounds kind of off-hand but I'm really amazed by him when I think about it. He never used to say much to me. He just didn't say much, period, but the night that we decorated the tree together, he suddenly got up and made a speech. I was terrified that he was going to tell me it was physics or nothing but that's not what it was about. He said he was sorry for what happened last year at Christmas, that he shouldn't have let it happen, it was wrong. Mom apologized too but I've never heard him say those actual words. He was all shaky like he was going to cry and I didn't know what to do but I said something about how it wasn't just him, I was the one who ran away. That's true too. They tried to call me a couple of times when I was back at school but I was always at Roy's and I didn't call them back. Anyway, they told me they loved me no matter what. It's hard to know what to say to that. "Sorry I'm gay and not very manly and that I saved you from those aliens. I'm glad you love me despite all that."

I sound all sarcastic and bitter but it was nice to hear, really. And just to make everything more surreal, Dad suddenly wanted to teach me to drive yesterday. Dad teaching me anything makes me nervous...like when he used to want us to just "throw a football around" in the backyard when I was a kid. We tried it for a while but it was always kind of disastrous and by the time I was ten I think we both gave up on it. I remember he used to yell at me for not holding the ball right and there was that time that he hit me in the chest with the ball and I started to cry. He was so disgusted. I don't want to disappoint him anymore so I was kind of jittery about the driving lesson — but it was actually fun. My dad has an adventurous side. And at least I've proven that I have SOME testosterone in my body.

Yeah, okay, it was a not too bad a day. Christmas, I mean. Zeke got me a digital camera which I haven't had a chance to really experiment with yet. I can't believe my parents got me Orson Welles movies. I didn't think they even knew he'd made movies other than Citizen Kane, if that. We played trivia and ate and just hung around all day, and it felt a little bit like time had stopped. But I was totally bagged by the end of it, I could barely keep my eyes open past nine o'clock. It was funny, I'll bet, me and Gram both snoring away in the living room. I feel a little bad that I never got a chance to spend a bit more time with her or Aunt Clarissa, but I just crashed and then they had to go today.

I'm such a fucking liar. Even to give my dad tickets for a football game or promise Sasha that we'll cook him dinner feels like a lie because I can't imagine anything after Los Angeles. I can't imagine a week from now, never mind a month. I don't want to go to Los Angeles, I don't want to go to the fucking wedding. I just want to be with Zeke.

So the problem with avoidance — and funny how he had learned this but it never stopped him from applying the same strategy time and time again — was that it never made anything better in the long run. Now that Casey could no longer duck thinking about the events that were inexorably approaching, he found that their scariness had become truly monumental. The reverberation of those four syllables... los...an...ge...les...across his mental landscape was enough to set him off. The panic was now straining in its cage, just barely leashed by Warden Klonopin.

It would probably help to make a list of the things that scared him, tackle them one by one. Well, for a start he was scared about being at LAX — if he was separated from Zeke he would surely die. He was scared of the L.A. driving too, not that he was expected to drive but what if Zeke rented a car and something happened and Casey was forced to take the wheel? It could happen. And he was scared of Zeke leaving him alone while he did wedding things, something that was perfectly inevitable. He might be attacked by an alien, or he might just think he was being attacked by an alien which was all it took for him to make a real mess of things. He would hurt someone again and embarrass and frighten Zeke, he could be dragged off to jail or to a hospital. Lately, he was having more frequent urges to lash out, and it wasn't that he wanted to hurt anyone but he just couldn't know that some kind of action wasn't a necessity. That day when he went shopping with Delilah he had almost shoved a man who stood too close to him in a checkout line, and at one point when Delilah touched his arm he had nearly shrieked out loud. If it had been an option he would have stayed in the house the entire time he was here, leaving only for walks...preferably in the middle of the night.

Sasha was right — this house is the safest place I know. I know I freaked Sasha out with that panicky bit when we first got here...because everything was just feeling so strange, I had that weird feeling like I didn't know where I was, or even my name. It's funny — our home in Seattle feels safe to me too but in my mind it's like a cave that shelters me from everything outside while I'm afraid the pressure will make the walls crumble one of these days. Maybe I just don't have what it takes to be a true big-city person — but god don't let Sasha and Zeke decide I should stay here, please. I know they've considered it, or Zeke has at least. He could be talking to Sasha right now about how to tell me that he's leaving

— which was her fault, she basically took him away by getting in the way and making him think all sorts —

Casey sucked a breath. He closed his eyes and gripped the plastic tube far too hard for writing.

No, it wasn't her...it was him. He didn't give Zeke what he needed, he couldn't and never could and then he had to act extra doubled fucked in the head and attack the — the — well, Winona. Not W-Monster and that was really him hitting her like that. He was the monster. He had hit a woman, a person who — no, it wasn't like she did nothing, but she wasn't going to actually physically harm him.

He didn't even remember hitting her. He remembered screaming and being terrified and fighting the arms that were trying to control and take him. Gradually he became aware of Sasha's voice in his ear and he argued with it and fought it a bit but he knew he had lost. He had failed.

He forced himself to compress something of this soundless discord into blue ink on a page.

I don't even remember doing it. The last thing I remember clearly was her walking by me and being sure that she was going to hurt me. I could actually feel her hands on me, it was so real. I can't think of the right words to describe what that felt like, I just knew that I couldn't bear it.

It was a haze that he couldn't entirely remember and couldn't entirely forget, a nightmare that had faded but was back now and wouldn't go away so he couldn't stand to have someone's eyes on him if he didn't know them — sometimes even if he did know them. And sometimes he wanted to bite Sasha or kick Zeke except he would be starting something he didn't have the strength to finish and he didn't want to hurt them. It was the one thing he could get his head around lately, not wanting to hurt them.

I remember what I was thinking, mostly. I remember and I still think those things but I can't say them out loud and I then sometimes I do forget, until the next time I remember. I'm so very fucked. I need to tell Dr. Yves some of this but I — no, I fucking CAN'T. She'll think that it was something that it wasn't. I didn't tell her I hit Winona, just that I was terrified and angry enough that I wanted to hurt her. Yves got that look on her face that means she's considering what she should do and in the end she told me to try and concentrate on having a holiday with my family. She asked me if I tended to get depressed around Christmas because so many people do and I just laughed. I told her no, I like Christmas. Anyway she gave me her phone number to call if I started feeling like I was going to hurt someone or myself. Zeke doesn't know about that. I think he would

A knock, accompanied by Sasha's voice: "Kitten?"

From pure reflex, Casey slammed the journal closed — even though Sasha was not in the room yet and not, to the best of Casey's knowledge, possessed of super x-ray vision. "Yeah."

"Can I come in?"

"Of course."

The door creaked slightly, introducing Sasha's face. "Your folks went to their...thing?"

"Mm hmm."

"What would you like for supper?"

"I dunno. Leftovers."

Sasha winced. "That would make sense, I guess." He remained in the doorway, as though he were bashful about entering the room, as though it were not his space just as much as Casey's. Casey compelled himself to wait and not twitch or jitter in place. "Kitten, there's something Zeke and I need to talk to you about. Can you come down to the kitchen?"

"Right now?" Casey asked, pressing his journal against his chest.

"It's the perfect time...your parents are out, the others are gone...and I'm leaving tomorrow morning, remember?"

Just another thing he was trying not to dwell on — Sasha going back to Seattle, himself and Zeke on their own — well, that part was okay, more than okay, but it was the whole business of getting on a plane for Los Angeles that Casey didn't want to think about. Or being in Los Angeles, but he had no choice if he was going to be with Zeke and be fucked on January 3rd —

Which, of course, was exactly what Sasha would be wanting to discuss right now.

"Okay," Casey answered at last.

He rolled off the bed and followed Sasha downstairs to the kitchen. Zeke was already waiting there at the table, sitting in Casey's usual chair with his hands folded and resting there. From the set of his jaw, he was ready for battle — or already at battle and this was just the next round.

"You want some tea or something, kitten?" Sasha asked.

Casey's stomach did a twisty, nauseous thing; his pulse quickened, then re- settled at a trot. Kudos for Klonopin. "No...thanks," he said, sliding into the chair that his dad usually occupied.

"Zeke?" Sasha said.

"What?"

"Do you want something?"

"Yeah," Zeke snapped. "I want to get this over with."

"All right," Sasha said mildly, joining them at the table. He didn't waste any time, jumping in with, "Kitten, it's about L.A."

Casey nodded. "You don't think it's a good idea."

Sasha blinked once, then returned gamely, "That's right. Can I tell you why?"

Zeke had tilted his chair onto its back legs. He huffed audibly while looking up at the ceiling.

"Obviously, Zeke and I have already had words about this," Sasha continued, apparently unconcerned by Zeke's display, "and Zeke disagrees with me. But I'm worried and you know I'm not going to keep my mouth shut about it."

Zeke let the chair fall forward, with a meaningful thump. "And I think...Sasha...that all you're doing right now is undermining his confidence."

Sasha's mouth fell open, depicting indignation.

"Not that you'd do it on purpose," Zeke amended. "But all the better if he stays at home with you, right? That way you won't have to let him out of your sight."

Sasha rolled his eyes. "You think if you keep bringing that up eventually I'll admit you're right?"

"I'd love to stop bringing it up," Zeke replied acidly. "If you'll just let something go for once. It's not like I'm thinking this trip will be a walk in the park, you know."

"I know you don't think that, but maybe you don't realize — "

"I realize all sorts of things, Sasha."

"But still you insist on dragging him — "

"Just — just — stop it, both of you!" Casey said. It would have been ideal if it came out as an authoritative shout but the stammer was good enough to get their attention. They gaped at him and he added in a whisper, "Please."

Resting his elbows on the table, Sasha scrubbed at his face and said, "Okay. I'm sorry, kitten. I didn't want to have a fight with anyone." He turned one of his classic, expectant faces on Zeke, who ignored it and said nothing in the way of apology.

It was up to Casey to assert himself now; he knew that. He began, "Sasha, I promised I would go. I — I want to go — and yes, I'm nervous but I do want to go — "

"All right," Sasha allowed, "but isn't it possible that the main reason you want to go is that Zeke wants you to? And not that that doesn't count for a lot, but when you consider what's going on in your life right now..."

His gentle tone shouldn't have triggered anger; none of the content was a particular surprise to Casey, and over the weeks and months Sasha had said all sorts of things that were far more intrusive and suffocating than this. Plus, it just so happened that Sasha was right — but Casey found himself seething nevertheless. "You don't think I can handle it," he accused.

"That's not what I mean, not at all."

"Yes, it is. You're worried that I shouldn't be around people — and you're right, I shouldn't, I'm a fucked up, scary thing that you shouldn't let out in public but I'm sure if Zeke keeps me locked up in our hotel room I won't do too much damage."

"Oh, kitten," Sasha sighed.

"Casey," Zeke said, his voice weary. "You know Sasha is just trying to think of what's best for you."

His unscheduled pinch-hitting for Sasha felt a lot like betrayal. It was almost like...Zeke didn't want him, Zeke didn't want him... and Casey ground out, "How about you let me tell you what's best for me."

Sasha's voice was so clotted with smarm, it should have been choking him. "Of course you decide, Casey. If I didn't respect your opinion, I wouldn't be trying to change your mind."

The logic was just novel enough to catch Casey by surprise, and he spent some time sorting through it. He supposed it made a certain amount of sense; Sasha was assuming that he could hold his own in an argument, listen to reason, weigh the pros and cons...which just went to show that Sasha was far too trusting.

"Okay," Casey said, giving him permission to continue.

"You're working harder than ever right now, kitten. I see it, Zeke sees it, we all see it and we think it's...really encouraging. You have new medication, you're doing all these things for Dr. Yves...and you know how important routine is. I just think it's better to be closer to your doctors right now....just not push it."

"So in other words I'll fuck everything up if I go."

Sasha winced slightly. "I know that you're capable of getting through this trip, Casey, but it's not going to do you any good. It may set you back."

Zeke was just sitting there being useless instead of helping but Casey did his best to ignore that and be at his most persuasive. Jittering and stammering were not going to aid his cause. "I can't change if I don't try," he said, aware that he was mining some quality bullshit. "And this is something I want to try."

This earned him a regretful look from Sasha.

"I've never seen Los Angeles," Casey added, laying it on as thick as he possibly could.

Unexpectedly, Zeke had something to offer. "Casey...you would tell me if you really didn't want to go, right? Because if you didn't...you could just tell me and it would be okay. I could cancel the trip and we all go back to Seattle tomorrow. That way everyone will be happy."

"It's not what you want," Casey whispered.

"I'll be fine. It isn't like this wedding is something of major importance in my life."

Sasha very conspicuously did not comment on that and Zeke did not expand on it, while Casey simply knew he had to be there for Zeke. Even if Zeke seemed determined not to admit it, this trip was meaningful to him; trying to re-establish ties with a parent was momentous and Casey owed it to Zeke to give him the same kind of support that he had given Casey. And if they had some sex while they were in Los Angeles...well, that was merely what they needed. Casey was quite well aware of Sasha's real reason for not wanting him to go, and surprised that Sasha hadn't put that on the table. His and Zeke's sex life was a topic that Sasha never hesitated to raise when he thought it was necessary; perhaps Sasha had recognized the futility of it in this particular instance.

After a prolonged silence Casey realized that they were both waiting for him. Casey tried to keep his chin up as he said, "I'm going with Zeke." He was pleased that his voice didn't wobble.

Sasha gripped the edge of the kitchen table with both hands. "All right," he sighed. "I guess that's that."

"Are we finished?" Casey asked, making like he didn't see Sasha's disappointment and ignoring the voice that kept screaming: There's no place like home...there's no place like home.

"I suppose," Sasha replied heavily.

Casey heard his journal beckoning. "Um...I was doing my homework."

"Go ahead, kitten. How long will you be?"

"Half an hour maybe."

"Okay, I'll warm up the leftovers around then."

Casey trudged upstairs, resisting the urge to turn around and give Sasha what he wanted, or to skip that step and stow himself in Sasha's luggage. There was just no way to make both Sasha and Zeke happy at the same time.

Slipping back into his room, Casey flopped on his stomach on the bed and yanked his journal within writing range. Flipping it open, he scrawled hurriedly, Zeke needs me to come to L.A.. That's what — The fucking pen wasn't working again; despite several good, hard shakes, the ink was coming out in fits and starts. Casey growled in frustration and just pressed harder, forcing the words out of it. — I have to remember. I can do this. I have to do this. I have to get something right.

Tossing pen and journal aside, he rolled over onto his back and put his hand over his eyes to block out the late afternoon brightness that slanted in the window. So much to not think about right now. Like the fact that he'd fucked up everything, he would fuck up Los Angeles, Zeke wouldn't forgive him and it was nothing less than he deserved —

Do not. Think. Do not.

He had other things to dwell on...how he was safe in his parents' home and it was still the holidays...not that they were all secretly conspiring — don't think don't think to leave him here and go on with their lives shut up don't think already, fuck but he wasn't with Zeke, it was over and Zeke hated —

No, you don't know that he hates you.

But I will be with him in Los Angeles. I will.

"I have to," he breathed.

With that there was another knock, announcing the next intrusion. Casey had learned the different styles of knocks of his various loved ones — so this would be Zeke coming to make sure that Casey was really prepared to step on that plane to California in two days. Casey didn't know about that, but he was prepared to keep lying if that was what it took.

 

A slight creaking told of Casey moving around upstairs, and Zeke pushed back his chair. "I guess your work here is done," he told Sasha as he stood up. He was surprised to find that he wasn't really angry at Sasha anymore. Okay, not too angry. The man wouldn't be his loyal, maddening self if he didn't interfere, and he wouldn't interfere if he didn't believe wholeheartedly in his cause.

"Not hardly," Sasha returned. "Where are you going?"

"Out on the porch for a smoke."

"I'll join you."

Zeke wasn't about to infer that Sasha wanted to share a cigarette; they weren't back to that exigency just yet. He scrounged for some reserve of patience he had yet to tap. "Sasha," he said tiredly. "I don't think there's anything left to say."

"Try me, sweetheart."

Zeke gave up; he went into the front hall and dug his coat out of the closet, not commenting on the fact that Sasha was right behind him. It was not a good day to be a smoker — blue-skied and clear but brutally cold. The endless grey and moderate temperatures of Seattle were holding more appeal for him all the time.

In more ways than one, actually. He didn't think Sasha would believe him if he were to say that he wished that they could all just go home tomorrow, but he did. All other things being equal, he would have enjoyed a trip to California, sure, but right now seemed like the worst possible time and it was only his promise to show up that prevented him from cancelling. His relationship with his father was simply not his highest priority, whatever Casey and Sasha might choose to believe. All Casey had to do was say the words: I can't do it, and Zeke, please don't go either , and Zeke would comply in an instant. But Casey hadn't said them, so Zeke was stuck. If he were to ask Casey to stay home it would be a disaster — and besides, he didn't want Casey to stay home, not if he wasn't there. Right now the only thing scarier than Casey with Zeke in L.A. was Casey in Seattle while Zeke was in L.A....Yves closing in on him with her straightjacket, Sasha providing all the snuggles, strange men eying Casey up and Casey perhaps eying them back, thinking that they might be able to give him what Zeke couldn't or wouldn't...

No.

He wouldn't go there. He had decided that he would not indulge in that most pathetic sort of jealous guy stuff. He had resolved not to think about Thomas anymore.

He would own up that he was desperately jealous — of Sasha. Yeah, he was jealous, he was irrational, resentful, insecure, petty, he was all of it. It wasn't even that he worried about Casey and Sasha getting it on because obviously that was nonsense. It was just that they were so close, and getting closer all the time. Every time Casey graced Sasha with the patented I-can't-wait-for-you-to-hold-me face, Zeke wanted to howl because that face that was his. And he found himself becoming deeply concerned about the sheer volume of hugs that Sasha dished out; Zeke had been on the receiving end of quite a few Sasha hugs himself, so he knew they were pretty damned addictive. Also, as far as he was concerned, Sasha called Casey "kitten" way more often than was strictly necessary. Zeke needed to take Casey away from Sasha for a while, have Casey with him, where he could see him and be near him, touch him maybe...not at the expense of Casey's recovery, of course.

So there was really no option but to have Casey with him in Los Angeles if that was what Casey wanted. Zeke would respect Casey's choice — and as Casey had very aptly demonstrated on several occasions now, he was capable of making his own decisions. They might be reckless, self-destructive, dead wrong decisions, but he made them with a certain conviction, that was for fucking sure. He could spill about the aliens to his shrink and delude himself that it was about getting better if that was what he wanted. Of course, Zeke knew perfectly well it was really about getting revenge and being in denial — but that was Casey's prerogative.

And it was done now. They'd just have to deal, and one way of dealing was for Zeke to keep Casey away from Yves as much as possible.

Sasha was stamping his feet and jamming his gloved hands in his pockets for supplemental warmth. "It's friggin' cold — and you say you aren't ready to quit smoking yet?"

The really annoying thing about this was that even though Sasha had to realize that Zeke knew it all backwards and forwards, he was going to go right ahead and beat it to death. Shrugging, Zeke retrieved the plastic ashtray that Allison had left out on the porch for him, no doubt to prevent his polluting her flower beds with ash and dead butts. Holding the ashtray in one gloved but numb-fingered hand, he attempted to smoke with the other. He made every haul count while he waited for Sasha to get to the rest of what he was going to say. Whereas some people had actual patience, Zeke had tobacco and nicotine.

"Zeke." Sasha was using a hushed voice, as thought Casey might be able to hear him somehow. "I don't want you to think that I don't trust you, or that I...don't believe in him."

Zeke couldn't offer more than a non-committal grunt to that, because it sure as fuck seemed like Sasha didn't have an iota of faith in either of them — and especially not in Zeke. But then, Zeke had long since accepted that whatever went on between himself and Casey, Sasha's interpretation would always be skewed towards seeing Casey as the victim and Zeke as the victimizer.

"I'm afraid Casey's on the edge," Sasha whispered.

"Tell me something I don't know."

"Zeke...I'm serious."

"So am I. Just saying that's nothing new."

"But it's like there's this...I don't know, it's just a vibe and it only comes out once in a while but it makes me nervous. I don't remember seeing it before — and when he was sleeping with you, did he have nightmares?"

"Not really, no..."

"Well, he keeps having these...episodes. It'll be the middle of the night and it's like he's panicking but he never really wakes up. I think something's changing and I don't know if it's good or bad."

Zeke felt obliged to note, "He'd done okay with everything this month... everything since my birthday, I mean." Well, notwithstanding that little blip on Christmas Eve —

"I know," Sasha agreed. "I feel very proud...and he's made such an effort this week, for the holidays."

"Yeah," Zeke said, letting some of his scorn emerge for this stupid preoccupation with everyone being pleasant and full of smiles at Christmas, even when in reality they just wanted to tear off their skin and run around screaming. He almost added, "That was something he did for you," and at the last second he figured it was better left unsaid. It had been at some cost to Casey, Zeke was sure of that, but he was just as sure that Casey didn't regret it. It had clearly been important to him.

Sasha threw a knowing stare at him. "I'm not an idiot, Zeke. I know that nothing just goes away...as much as I'd like to think that being at home with the family makes all the difference."

"Of course it makes some difference..." Zeke saw that Sasha had angled away from him just enough that his expression couldn't be seen and he was muttering something. "What's that?" Zeke said.

"Nothing." Sasha turned back. His eyes were a bit shimmery, his nose a little reddened. Nothing that couldn't be explained away by the cold. "The big question is — now what?"

"Now, nothing," Zeke declared. He tapped cinders into his ashtray. "Casey and I have to do Los Angeles and then we'll get to 'now what'."

"We need to talk to him about...that stuff he told us."

"I think you would agree with me that he's going to be nervous enough about this trip without dumping that on him just now. It's just going to have to wait."

"It doesn't feel right."

"I know you believe that everything should always be blurted out right away..."

"Eat me, sweetheart, I do have some discretion...it's just, that was a major piece of information he shared with us."

"And I'd rather wait until we were back at home before we have that discussion."

Zeke was permitted to smoke in peace for half a minute, while Sasha shivered and stared out at the road again. A car or two passed by, emitting exhaust that was thick and white in the bitter cold. That same cold had now penetrated Zeke's coat and sweater and was well into his bones. It seemed that every year they had a week or two like this in Herrington, and Zeke didn't miss it in the slightest.

"Okay, you're right," Sasha conceded, still facing the street. "Now's not the right time...but I still have a problem with you and Casey going on this trip together."

"You don't say."

Sasha rotated and pinned him squarely with a look that demanded accountability. "Are you going to make me spell it out?"

Rolling his eyes, Zeke said, "I like to hear you spell it out, so yeah."

"What are you going to do about the sex issue?"

"You — " Zeke inhaled a bit too far and coughed into his sleeve " — you can do better than that."

"All right, then — are you planning on having sex with Casey? Are you just biding your time until you can get back down to it? Planning to ring in the new year?"

Zeke couldn't quite restrain a grin. It wasn't so much that he was amused — more that he was delighted by Sasha's absolute determination and consistency when it came to this subject. The alternative was another level of resentment, which he didn't really want to feel. "Where would I be without you?"

"Are you making fun of me?"

"Never." Zeke mashed out the remains of his cigarette. "The answer is I don't know."

"That's not acceptable."

"But it is my answer, and it happens to be the truth." Zeke confronted Sasha's fierce stare. "I know all the arguments for and against. I know why you'd much rather have Casey in Seattle with you and not with me. You don't have to say any of it."

Sasha raised his brows. "But I don't know what to say if I don't say any of it."

"Don't say a word. Just let me sort this out."

With a deep sigh, Sasha asked, "Will you do one thing for me?"

"What's that?"

"Talk to Casey, ask him if he really wouldn't rather come home with me tomorrow. He might, but he just might not want to say it with both of us there at the same time. He's protective of you, you know, he won't let anyone say anything even remotely like criticism."

Zeke was ridiculously pleased — especially given some of the words Casey had been known to use to describe Zeke when they were in private. "That's nice to know...and yes, Sasha, I was planning on talking to him." More than ready to get out of the cold and into the warm house, Zeke turned towards the door. He stopped halfway, struck with a need to say one more thing. "Sasha — regarding the sex issue. You don't need to keep getting in my face about it."

"Hmm. I have to say, at the risk of pissing you off, that it didn't look that way to me on Christmas Eve. And it sure didn't sound that way a month ago."

All sorts of pettiness leapt to mind but Zeke managed to contain it — just barely. "I know what I said a month ago...but I've had lots of time to myself, to clear my head as you say. Yeah, I came close to losing it a few times, but I think I'm doing a pretty fucking fine imitation of a eunuch and I'll thank you to keep your mouth shut."

And he stormed into the house, not slamming the door in Sasha's face although he really, really would have liked to.

Oh, yes, over the past month he'd had ample time to reflect, even with exams looming and Casey's mood filling the apartment like a black miasma. He'd remembered some important facts — such as he was the one who made the decision to let go in the first place. He was the one who had allowed himself to lose control and, as much as it might be tempting to think otherwise, he was responsible for his actions. Just as it had been his decision to start, it could be his decision to stop and he would abide by that even if it meant that he became a frustrated quasi-monk who took icy showers and whipped himself daily. Wanting felt much cleaner than having. Wanting, he could handle.

But, fuck...he wanted so fucking much. He didn't recall wanting quite like this before, or perhaps over the months that he'd been having regular sex he'd simply forgotten how it felt to walk around aching. Either way, all he knew was that he could barely concentrate on what Casey said because he was so busy watching Casey's mouth move. He was slow in catching on to Casey's moods because he was far too busy watching the play and flush of Casey's skin to actually notice what it signified. And simple little things made him crazy. Like Sasha giving Casey earrings as a joke. Like Casey's father taking him out for a driving lesson. Like Sasha getting to sleep with Casey, like...pilfered sensations of Casey's skin under his fingertips and the take-me look that Casey seemed incapable of shutting off.

There was no question that things were getting to him far more than they should. He was appalled by his overreactions and embarrassed that he couldn't restrain the compulsion to ask Casey about something that he should have been able to shrug off. Even after he'd asked and Casey had reassured him, he was still thinking and stewing and suspecting, and it absolutely demeaning that he had permitted something as irrational as jealousy to have power over him. It was fucking pathetic.

So he told himself every time he replayed the encounter with Thomas Kirton.

 

There was no forgetting the man from Zorba's who had struck up a conversation with Casey that day in September. Zeke remembered all too well how the man — handsome, well-dressed and professional-looking — seemed to take a more than neighbourly interest. He hadn't thought about the guy more than a few times since, but whenever he did, there had always been a flare of possessive heat in his gut; there was something in the man's expression, in the charisma he brought to bear even in the act of being polite, that left Zeke incensed.

It happened a block away from Zorba's this time, where the man was leaning back against the brick facade of the pharmacy, just minutes from their apartment. He had obviously fallen on hard times. He was wearing a fine suit that was still mostly intact but was dirty, wrinkled and ripped in the knees. Oddly, he was still wearing his tie, and the knot was perfect, which only served to make the rest of him look more scruffy. Apart from a scarf and a pair of gloves, he was lacking any outdoor wear.

Maybe Zeke was an idiot to give the guy more than a glance, but it was entirely unexpected and somewhat alarming to see this alteration in someone who had previously been so poised. Still, Zeke didn't really have the energy to dwell on the moral and social implications of pausing for more than that extra second; he had just finished his last exam, he was exhausted and on his way home to crash, and it was more than evident that this was not a well person.

Except for the whisper that arrived in that distinctive, almost genteel voice with its carefully enunciated syllables, Zeke wouldn't have broken stride as he passed by.

"I know what you treasure."

It stopped Zeke instantly — both the words and the fact that Casey was the implied subject of the remark. However, he was not fully committed to a conversation yet; he remained with his feet still pointing homeward. "What?" he asked.

There was a grin etched on the man's face. "You're Zeke, right?"

He thought about trying to bluff but it struck him as silly given past history. "You're that guy from Zorba's, that time," Zeke noted.

"Thomas," the man said, and was sounding angry. "My name is Thomas Kirton...Thomas Kirton!"

Zeke's body went on the defensive even before his head could catch up and issue an appropriate warning. There was an edgy jitter in the body opposite him, a sense of imminent explosion. "Okay, Thomas...take it easy."

"But I haven't seen Casey," the man blurted.

Shock took hold of Zeke, freezing him from the inside. "Who?" he said before he could think about his reaction. He'd already acknowledged the man, for fuck sake, but he instinctively felt that Casey should not be known by him. Call it protection or possession, he didn't care as long as Casey's existence — or his name, or his history or his relationship to Zeke — was not within the knowledge of this Thomas Kirton.

Thomas smiled at Zeke's attempt at a bluff. "There's this little treasure with funny hair, you know the one."

"I don't."

"The one you have locked in your tower."

"I...what?"

"You have treasure in your tower, someone's gonna have to rescue him." Right before Zeke, Thomas started to shake with a visible, violent passion. "You can't do that to him, you...you cannot, someone's going to bust break battle down and take him away!"

At this, Zeke couldn't maintain the charade any longer. "Thomas, I'm just going to tell you this once. Don't talk about him, don't look at him, don't even think about him."

"You think I would hurt him...He thinks I would hurt him, just as that fucking Rob Roy thinks I would hurt his cappucinos and his lattes. I don't hurt, I help. I help not hurt, not hurt...not hurt!"

"Then leave Casey alone," Zeke said quietly. He was managing, for now, to regulate his speculation as to how much of this man's blathering was fantasy or whether there was a kernel of truth to it. Thomas might never have spoken to Casey; if he had been hanging around this neighbourhood as he was apparently doing, he would have had plenty of opportunity to watch Casey coming and going, without Casey ever knowing it.

"We talk, we don't look or think. Casey-Treasure says 'Who are you are you one of them?' over and over." Thomas tilted his head, showing all of his teeth in his next smile while he bounced in place. It appeared that he had far more energy than he could keep in check. "He's really very disturbed-disturbed-perturbed you know you know like I would ever be one of them, poor treasure, so mixed up."

This was beginning to feel more and more like a nightmare. "You and Casey..."

"Oh, yeah. I see him, we talk-talk." The grin was knowing. "Some things need to be talked about, tower-man."

At that point Zeke shut down every reaction, because it was either that or start raging. "What?"

"Maybe he's your treasure but you need to let him talk you can't just look at him and run your hands through him...pretty-pretty, gotta play, gotta touch, pretty- pretty..."

"What the fuck do you mean?" Zeke ground out, while he was afraid that he knew all too fucking well what Thomas meant.

Perhaps alerted by the tone in Zeke's voice, Thomas ceased his bouncing for the moment. "It's hard not to touch sometimes, hard not to..."

Zeke snarled, "I don't know what you're talking about and I'm walking away — but you stay away from Casey and me."

He took the first step away from this mad person and was stopped by a hard, firm grip on his shoulder and a clear, intact sentence: "It's hard not to touch when he asks you."

His mind eradicated of everything but fury, Zeke spun, breaking Thomas' hold, and with a roar pushed him back into the wall of the nearby building. Thomas slammed into the brick with a nearly audible thump. Not satisfied with this, Zeke raised a clenched fist — and just barely managed to keep from using it. "You get the fuck away from me. Don't ever come back here. If I see you around Casey, I'll kill you."

Thomas had stopped smiling. "I am sorry," he said, trembling with something that incorporated both sorrow and violence. "I just wanted to help."

Zeke was beyond accepting any demonstrations of remorse. "Fuck you."

The man nodded but Zeke saw a renewal of danger in his slitted expression. It occurred to Zeke that he had just narrowly avoided getting into a real brawl on the streets of Seattle. There were no less than three people hovering nearby, standing back in the hope of not having to intervene but concerned to see the outcome. "Yes, I will fuck off now quite naturally..." The grin broke out again. "I will fuck off, will fuck off, off I fuck...fuck..." He meandered away, leaving Zeke heaving with panic. The spectators got out of his way in a hurry.

Zeke brushed off the inquiries of the well-meaning and set out for home but almost immediately lost track of where he was walking, lost track of everything but those words...It's hard not to touch...pretty pretty...hard not to touch when he asks...I see him, we talk... He stalked right past his building, barely feeling the sidewalk, not seeing anything but the dreadful, until-a-few-minutes-ago-unthinkable pictures that crowded his head...Casey on his back with that man on top of him...or on his knees...or in their bed, and from a logistical perspective, it easily could have happened, Casey had all sorts of time and Thomas Kirton was very attractive. No doubt his insanity made him just that little bit more appealing to Casey. So he had all sorts of time and opportunities to make an idiot out of Zeke, make him stupid, make him weak...It was Casey abusing himself to the point of breakdown to get revenge on Zeke, it was just more of the same where Zeke was being Mr. Restraint and Casey was fucking around. Zeke had fucking had it, he didn't want to be a part of it anymore. He was through being a chump.

Eventually he realized that the liquor store was his destination; he found himself there almost without having made a conscious decision. Going in, he picked up a forty of vodka. He had found his purpose for tonight.

Once he was home, he sat down to systematically empty the bottle. He would not call the Connor residence as he had the previous nights. Casey could chew his nails, throw a fit, fuck Sasha or Gabe or some guy off the street if he liked. Zeke was not calling.

There had been a time when he was in control. When he chose to order his mother out of the house, when he chose to fail at school, when he chose to sell drugs...or later on when he chose to finish high school, it might have seemed like he had sold out but the fact was that he had chosen everything, right up until he walked willingly into Casey's domain. Before that no one, man or woman, had gotten the drop on him because he had learned his lesson about emotions at an early age. He was clear and free of all that garbage; he was his own person. No one needed him and he needed no one.

Now he was murdering several million brain cells because some person — a mere person, an ordinary human being who just happened to be easy to look at and occasionally fun to be with although it was getting difficult to remember the last time fun had been anywhere in evidence — had lied to him.

It was his own fucking fault for fucking letting it happen. At some point he had stopped seeing Casey and started seeing something so precious that he would organize his choices around the prospect of getting a smile on that face. He had given more of himself than he'd ever given in his life; he had given Casey his opinion about what was best, he had fought with him and gotten afraid and angry and irrational over the fucking aliens because he cared so much about Casey's well-being — and then Casey just ignored him. Oh, yeah, Casey liked to act all willing and submissive but at any moment he could and would go his own way and to hell with everything that Zeke had tried to do for him until the next time he needed to be held, or he needed a fuck.

This was not the love of his life — because there was no such thing. There was no such thing as an emotion that never changed and this was not some grand, gay romance. This was him being manipulated and used, a thing that he had sworn when he was twelve years old would never happen to him again. He'd watched as his mother pulled all sorts of crap on his father and for years his father had let her get away with it. He'd known that he absolutely was not going to be that way — and eleven years later, here he was.

So okay, he would grant that he was the product of his upbringing and like anyone he could fall back into the old patterns. It was correctable, at least. The solution was obvious: He would not be with Casey anymore. They could still be friends, once his wrath had cooled a little. He would still care for Casey because they had a connection and he was just that kind of guy. But he couldn't be with him.

He would tell Casey tomorrow. No need to beat around the bush.

He passed out before he could finish the bottle and it occurred to him, when he woke up later with vomit cascading down his front, that this was probably a good thing. As it was, he had drunk enough to be well and truly fucked; he had to drag himself to the bathroom while barely controlling the heaves and drape himself over the toilet. The puking went on and on until there was nothing left in him and he was lying, drained, on the bathroom floor. He forced himself to drink two glasses of water and swallow three Tylenol before stripping to his underwear and passing out again.

The next time he woke up, he came to the understanding that it might actually be possible to die from a hangover. His stomach muscles ached from all the heaving he had done last night and his skull seemed to have shrunken so that it was squeezing the contents; if he moved, his brain would explode like a grape. Food was out of the question, of course. He lay flat on his back for hours, contemplating the ceiling, learning the various, faint striations and discolourations in the paint.

Mid-morning, the phone rang; he knew it was Casey calling in a frenzy but he just couldn't make himself move. However, he was struck by the fact that he actually wanted to speak to Casey, to just hear his voice. It was probably more due to habit than any real desire — but then, reviewing his behaviour of the previous night, he wondered if he might have overreacted a tad. Or maybe more than a tad. So what if that Thomas had implied something, it didn't have to mean what Zeke had immediately assumed it meant. Thomas Kirton was a mentally ill person who had probably seen both Zeke and Casey on the street, who had started spouting words just because Zeke was within earshot and it suited his hallucination of the moment. It had been terribly unjust, not to mention irrational of Zeke to jump to such conclusions.

He could put his overreaction down to having been extremely fatigued — but it wasn't just that. His essential epiphany was not incorrect: Being in love was making him nuts. Which was fine, he supposed, except that he could have damaged Casey severely as a direct consequence. He was no romantic who believed in the purity of love, but there was something about the prospect of harming someone out of love for them that offended his notions of consistency and common sense.

And so, for the first time he allowed himself to conceive of the impossible while in a serious and sober mind, of not being with Casey.

Solely as a concept, it had a lot going for it. There was no question that he would always be Casey's friend. He would always support him and be there for him but if they were not together he could retreat to a more sane distance that would be better for both of them. It didn't have to be permanent, and it would be so much healthier. For his own part, Zeke would like himself a lot more when he wasn't flipping out over random events such as the rantings of a homeless person, or Casey choosing to do what Casey thought was best — which he was of course completely entitled to do. Zeke could concentrate on actually helping Casey without all the complications engendered by his own emotional demands. He'd promised Casey his help and, if he was going to be successful in keeping that promise, he must no longer indulge himself in this big experiment with romance.

Not very long ago, Casey had entrusted him with a secret. Casey had been stoned on sedatives at the time but Zeke wasn't going to let that detract from the magnitude of that act of confidence. And Zeke now had an immense and terrible task ahead of him: To convince — compel, if necessary — Casey to talk about that trauma. Ideally it should happen with Dr. Yves but to accomplish this Zeke would first have to get Casey to talk about it with him. Unfortunately, there were huge obstacles in the form of Christmas, New Year's and the wedding in Los Angeles, things that inevitably deterred Zeke from making that happen. When their mutual social calendar cleared up a bit, that difficult conversation would be the first priority. It would cause major turmoil to be sure, but the essential and critical factor was that Zeke keep his head clear and his motives pure. Meanwhile, the evidence clearly showed that ever since he had fallen for Casey, his head had been anything but clear, and his motives far from pure.

So given that reasoning, they should "just be friends" from here on in.

On the other hand, a straight objective inquiry revealed that Zeke's vital statistics went ballistic at the prospect of losing Casey. If that happened, Zeke would have to work out a way to ensure that if Casey was not with him, Casey was not with anyone else either. It would be a tricky, difficult business. No doubt, if Casey survived the break-up, Yves would advise him to see other people, and chances were reasonably good that other people would want to see him. Zeke couldn't have that.

Of course, these considerations were little more than an intellectual exercise once you took into account Casey's expected reaction if he and Zeke were no longer together. In theory separation could be healthy, sure, but Casey tended to burst most of Zeke's theories.

When the phone rang a second time, Zeke made a supreme effort to get to it. He had a brief, curt conversation with Sasha, who told him that Casey had gone shopping with Delilah, of all things. He promised to call later then collapsed again, and this time he had the foresight to bring the cordless phone with him so he wouldn't have to get up again.

It was a hellish day but by six o'clock he finally was able to eat. He ordered a pizza and dragged himself to the fridge, saying a prayer of thanks to the Gods of The Hangover for having given him the prescience to stock up on orange soda and coke after Sasha left town. Once he had gulped down a gallon of sugary, cool liquid, he was ready to call the Connor residence.

It was Casey who answered; he must have been lurking around the phone, waiting to pounce. "Hello?"

And two syllables from an adored mouth had the power to rearrange Zeke's mental infrastructure. The not being with Casey premise was instantly downgraded from unlikely to impossible. Also, he'd been thinking that the next time he had Casey on the phone he was at least going to demand an explanation for the things Thomas had said, but now that he was in a position to ask, his will started to go to mush, compromised by the pleasing sound of Casey's voice.

"It's...it's me," Zeke said weakly.

"I tried to call you today...wh-why didn't you call last night?"

"Sorry, Case. I was...stupid." Yeah, that was true enough. "I decided to get drunk...to celebrate the end of term, you know, and I ended up passing out."

"Oh."

"I paid for it, though. I was in major fucking pain today."

"Oh...sorry."

"It's my own fault. I heard you went shopping with Delilah — how was that?"

"Okay."

Casey wasn't saying much, and Zeke knew it was incumbent upon him to make amends for last night's behaviour. "What else did you do today?" he asked, cringing at the sound of himself trying to make idle conversation.

"Not very much. I was freaking out all day."

"Case...it was one phone call, why let that get to you?"

"Because, you know...I just...miss you."

"You know that sometimes things are going to happen and I won't be able to call...it doesn't have to mean anything."

"I know...I'm trying...Zeke, will you call tomorrow? I know I'm just being crazy but I start thinking all these things and I can't stop — "

"Hey. It's okay. I'm not going anywhere."

As he said it, Zeke came to a humbling realization: It was quite possible that no matter what shit Casey pulled, what he did to Zeke or who he slept with, Zeke would still want to be with him.

"Kay."

"Except to Herrington, of course," Zeke mused, breaking off as the doorbell rang. "There's my pizza...I gotta go, Case."

"Okay...talk to you tomorrow."

Hanging up, Zeke scarfed the whole pizza and guzzled another gallon of soda. All the while, he pondered the probability that, despite his best efforts, he was becoming his father. Even worse — knowing it wasn't enough to stop it.

 

As he soaked up the exceedingly pleasant warmth of the Connor home and removed his boots and coat, Zeke wondered if it were not too late to save himself. Perhaps he was not entirely weakened, not yet. Certainly weakness could not be his main problem, not when he'd managed to survive almost an entire month without sex other than with his own hand.

One thing for sure — abstinence was a learning experience. For instance, he'd learned that he could hold grudges better than most folks. Also that he was capable of the worst kind of unreason and that it could be disguised all too easily as logic. Mainly, he'd learned that he was not immune to those flaws of human nature that afflicted other people, and he needed to be wary of himself. He had serious control issues, yes, and he was inherently capable of being just as angry, jealous and petty as any other guy. Possibly more.

For another thing, he hadn't quite realized that he had been going around resenting Casey for depriving him of his sex life; it was immensely unfair of him and he'd only realized it on Christmas Eve when he was tested and just barely passed. When Casey lead him on all night and then disappointed him, his initial response had been How dare he? And when, later on, Casey was intent on not disappointing him, there had been a few terrible seconds in which there was no consciousness of anything except what Zeke Tyler wanted. Nothing else was of the slightest relevance to him and the only reason he'd pushed Casey away, initially, was the desire to assert his authority over the situation. It had been his plan to grab him and mash him into the couch, to turn the situation around so it was entirely on his own terms. Casey had been entirely right about that.

The only thing that had stopped him from diving back into Casey at that moment was the needy sound that Casey had made. It brought back some vestige of reason, and fear too, because Zeke apprehended that he felt just as Casey sounded, and he was not supposed to be the needy one, he was supposed to be the one who had some kind of self-possession.

"I'm going to go warm up the leftovers," Sasha announced, breaking into Zeke's ruminating. Zeke glanced over at him and saw him looking afflicted at the prospect of more turkey and potato and gravy.

"What's wrong with leftovers? Turkey's better the second day anyway."

"Yeah," Sasha agreed. "But I just know I'm going to make a pig of myself again is all." Noticing that that Zeke had put a foot on the stairs, he added, "Are you going to — ?"

"Sasha," Zeke interrupted, pausing in mid-step.

"Yes?"

"Don't nag."

"Oh, but I can't help it."

"Try."

Zeke climbed the stairs and knocked on Casey's door. There was no answer so he knocked again, harder. "Case...it's me."

There was a shuffling and a rustling, and then Casey opened the door. He had never looked quite so much like a person with secrets; Zeke felt the flutter of suspicion and stomped on it. He couldn't actually be so preposterous now that he suspected Casey of having a man stashed under his bed or in his closet. What a paradox that after all this time, after all the intimacy between them, Casey still could appear as a stranger to him. This had to be a conundrum that had outfoxed many millions throughout recorded human history; it was the mistake of thinking that just because someone let you inside their body, they were known to you.

"Can I talk to you?"

Casey stepped back, not saying a word.

Zeke penetrated the room in two strides and sat on the bed, leaving Casey standing near the door.

"What?" Casey asked suddenly, in a small voice. His hands moved, wavering uneasily before settling on his upper arms. Pretending not to notice his anxiety, Zeke patted the bed beside him. Casey drifted a little closer but didn't sit.

"Just tell me, Case. Are you up for a trip to Los Angeles?"

Another thing about Casey these days was that he seemed to get angry with the greatest of ease. "I told you," he said, his face shouting hostility. "I told Sasha. I'm tired of telling everyone."

"I know, Case, and I'm sorry to keep asking. But I have to say this...You don't have to do it if you don't want to. Nothing bad will happen if you don't, I won't be mad."

Casey was rocking in place very slowly, as though he were straining to hear distant music. He said, "I want to be there for you."

"I know you do."

"It's your father, you can't tell me it doesn't mean anything."

Zeke considered saying just that — except he knew that Casey wouldn't buy it. They'd had this discussion already, months ago. "Okay, it does mean something, and having you there would mean something too. It would mean a lot — but I'll settle for doing the right thing, Casey. I just need you to tell me what that is."

"It's what you want."

"No, it isn't, not necessarily."

"But Zeke — "

"No, it doesn't matter, Case — don't you get it?!" Zeke didn't even realize he was getting angry until he found himself on his feet. "What I want is not at all relevant, I think that's been clear for a while now so just tell me you can't do this and let's get on with things!"

Casey stood rooted to a spot on the carpet, eyes huge and bruised. He tightened his arms over his chest and said, "I can do it. I want to do it. I'm going with you." He blinked several times, dissipating emotion and moisture through his lashes. "I mean...please let me go with you."

So it was an impasse; Zeke had known it when arguing with Sasha earlier and this conversation was the reiteration. The only option was to concede and let things unfold while doing everything possible to sustain Casey. "Okay," Zeke said, letting his voice soften. "Yes, I want you with me. Let's go to Los Angeles..."

"Thank you," Casey gulped.

"You don't have to thank me, Case, I'm the one who should thank you. The wedding's going to be incredibly dull, I'm sure."

Casey shook his head — in denial of what, Zeke couldn't quite ascertain. Hesitating only for a second, Zeke crooked a finger and gestured for him to come closer. He opened his arms and sighed as the slight, pleasing warmth that was Casey curled in against his chest. Predictably, Casey was trembling but perhaps much less than he would have two months earlier. Zeke stroked and toyed with his hair, daring to think that maybe, just maybe, this trip wouldn't be a complete disaster.

The new medication did seem to be having a marked effect. Not only was Casey physically much healthier, he seemed not nearly as agitated about things in general. He was more talkative, he had either taken pleasure in the Christmas activities or done a really good job of pretending, and he'd even demonstrated the capacity for restraint. He couldn't be faulted for losing perspective that one time, not when Zeke had long since forgotten what perspective looked like. Most encouraging, Casey hadn't had a panic attack that Zeke knew of, not since the bad one a few weeks back. Not a real one anyway — bad dreams didn't count. And Casey hadn't assaulted anyone lately. Sasha could be overestimating the potential risk in the situation. It had been known to happen.

"So what do you want to see in Los Angeles?" Zeke asked, plying his fingers against the back of Casey's neck. "Hollywood Boulevard? The Chinese Theatre?"

"Maybe," Casey said, his voice muffled against Zeke's sweater. His fingers were clasped in it, grasping and releasing handfuls of it.

"We're going to have time to do some tourist things."

"Yeah..."

Zeke had to ask himself just what it was about Los Angeles that most disturbed Casey. He guided Casey and himself to sit on the bed with only a slight stumble, keeping Casey attached to him — ah, well, so he loved it when Casey tucked himself in as close as he could get, he loved that Casey still clung to him.

"Case."

"Mmm."

"Can you tell me what it is that makes you so nervous about this trip?"

There was no answer. If Casey's face had not been buried, Zeke would have been looking to see what it was projecting right now — probably disgust at being asked such an obvious question.

"Is it just that it's new," Zeke pressed, "or is it the size...or something in particular about L.A.?"

"Yes."

Zeke had to chuckle. "Would you say that's an exhaustive list, or is there more?"

"Yes."

"Wanna tell me?"

Casey's breath quickened slightly. "I...guess."

Zeke waited. When nothing was forthcoming, he gave Casey a bit of a jostle. "Hello? Earth to fruit loop."

"Okay, okay..." Casey parted his face from Zeke's torso. "You shouldn't make that shoulder so cozy if you want me to talk." He looked away, towards the window. "It's all that stuff and...and...I don't want to screw up again."

"You got through the dinner with my dad just fine."

"But your birthday..."

Zeke scrabbled for something honest to say that was also comforting. "That's past. Stuff happened, it's over, it's not going to happen again."

This in a tiny voice: "What if it does?"

"I don't think it will. It was almost a month ago, Casey, and since then nothing has happened."

"Because I've been here."

"Because you've been working at it — and you were only here half of the time. C'mon, Case, you telling me you feel like attacking someone else?"

"What if I said yes?" Casey whispered.

Zeke's tentative optimism died on the spot. So during this entire trip he was going to have to watch Casey constantly, keep him away from most people and run interference for him with those who couldn't be avoided...he was weary just at the thought.

"Okay," he said, as lightly as he could manage, "But the important thing is that you don't do it. I have urges to punch people all the time...and I'll bet your dad would love to punch me."

This won a tiny smile from Casey. "It's that bad attitude of yours."

"Hey...I think I've been pretty respectful on this visit."

"Yeah...you have."

"I've been saving all the attitude for Sasha," Zeke mused, and felt regretful.

"It's not funny, though," Casey said. "I'm the problem, I make you and Sasha unhappy so you argue...but it'll be so much better when we — when we can be together, just the two of us." Zeke had been oblivious to the fact that he was being seduced until this moment when Casey went for the kill with all his guns blasting, eyes shimmering, voice tremulous and needy. "Sasha won't be around after tomorrow..."

"Whoa, stop." Zeke took hold of Casey's hands and squeezed them hard in the hope of halting that flow of words. "Stop."

"But you know it will help, we don't need to wait — "

"Casey, shh." Zeke tried to pull him in and rock him, feeling like an idiot all the while. He wished he knew how Sasha could always do this with such an absence of self-consciousness. "Stop it."

"But I — "

"I know you can control yourself, Casey. You did before."

"Sasha was watching." Casey propelled himself backwards, out of Zeke's arms. Sullen and desperate at the same time, he said, "I don't know how to...not lose control."

"You just don't."

Casey shook his head, hissing, "I don't know how. And don't tell me it's just another few days because a few days is too fucking long!"

Whatever Casey had intended with this, Zeke heard a very clear, very real warning, and he suddenly knew the answer to Sasha's question of just half an hour ago. He and Casey would not be having sex in Los Angeles, nor any time soon. More to the point, Casey really should be going home with Sasha tomorrow but Zeke couldn't admit that out loud. He wanted Casey with him and only him, even if it was going to be hell.

The current of sinister energy that animated Casey from time to time had already run its course, leaving him limp and regretful. His posture devolved to an abject slump and he didn't speak another word — neither of temptation, nor anger, nor even apology. It had all been said before.

Zeke said quietly, "I have an idea. Let's not make assumptions about how things should be in Los Angeles, we'll just let it be whatever it is, all right?"

The noise that Casey made then was probably intended as a laugh, albeit rather obscured by tears. "You and Yves...sometimes I think you're the same person." Zeke wasn't sure that he liked the comparison. "I just don't want you to make it harder on yourself. You don't need to...I just want you with me."

At this, the bright, bitter quality in Casey's eyes melted into a more common species of misery. "I want to be with you too."

Acting entirely on impulse, Zeke took Casey's hand and, holding it palm up, pressed a kiss into it. "I do love you," he said. "Don't forget it."

Casey said, "I won't," but he wasn't meeting Zeke's eyes, and Zeke didn't remember ever having felt quite so unsettled, unsafe, or altogether unhappy.

 

December 27th. Sasha is leaving today and Zeke hates me.

Casey rested his forehead on the page and fought down the urge to fill the page with black blobs. He shivered and scrunched his body backwards a few inches under the sheets, curling around his hands. How pleasant it would be to huddle here with the blankets over his head, abiding all day in a dim, private silence. It was a plan that made a fuck of a lot of sense but unfortunately everyone else in the house was already up. They were getting ready to take Sasha to his train and they'd come looking for Casey soon enough.

Sighing, he unfurled and returned to his journal, lying open on the mattress just on the other side of his pillow. He wrote lying on his stomach, while hugging the pillow under his chin.

Okay, maybe Zeke doesn't hate me yet but things still aren't right between us. It's me, I'm the sickness. I don't blame him for wanting to keep me at a distance, I'm telling myself not to hurt him but I know I will. Once Sasha leaves there'll be nothing to stop me.

"Hey, pal."

Casey lifted his head and saw his dad standing in the doorway.

"Yeah, Dad."

"Are you dressed? We're leaving for the station soon."

"I'll be right there," Casey said, shivering in anticipation of losing the warmth of his bed; their house could be a little chilly in the mornings, especially this room. He made haste to layer on the clothing — two t-shirts, a long-sleeved shirt and a sweater, two pairs of socks, even long underwear.

Downstairs, Zeke and Sasha were sitting with his parents at the kitchen table. His mother wore the grieving face that was always associated with the last day of vacation but he thought that his dad still had a few days left. As on most mornings, Zeke was looking groggy and cranky, not like anyone who was in a mood to communicate. Sasha was having some toast and coffee, and given his drawn expression and the shadows beneath his eyes he must not have slept very well. He welcomed Casey with a wan smile. "Hi, kitten."

Casey nodded, because he was afraid that if he spoke he would say something impossible like Please don't go, don't leave me here, I want to go home with you which was ridiculous because he was supposed to go on an adventure with Zeke tomorrow and he was supposed to be happy about it. He was supposed to be ecstatic, in fact.

I will be with Zeke...I will be with Zeke...have to be...

"Are you feeling okay?" Sasha asked him.

Something about the way it was asked triggered a memory of last night when he had been struggling through a dream of dark muck and there was a voice: It's okay, Casey, it's okay, stop kitten please, you're safe. And he, Casey, had been crying at the time. He remembered hearing himself now; he had sounded inconsolable.

His face burned as he said, "I'm...oh-okay."

"How about some breakfast?" his mom asked of him.

"There's no time right now," interposed his dad before he could reply. "We have to be going. You are coming with us, right, pal?"

"Yeah." Casey glanced at Sasha and felt like crying in the daylight now, or maybe screaming.

But he didn't cry and he didn't scream. He followed the crowd to his dad's car and joined Sasha and Zeke in the back seat. It was not a satisfying arrangement for those who were long-legged but it was fine for Casey. Sandwiched between them, he was in sensory overload, accepting input from two men who felt and looked and smelled exactly as they should. Houses and street signs floated past him, along with the other little details that were so perfectly known and recognizable but were somehow hostile to him.

At the corner of Front and Bay, he admitted it to himself: He wished he was getting on this train with Sasha. He was terrified of being without Zeke, yes, but he was certain to fall apart without Sasha — and once he fell apart, Bad Stuff would be the inevitable result.

He grabbed Sasha's hand, as if that would keep him from going anywhere. Sasha squeezed back and said, "It's okay, kitten."

"Wh-where are the — the Xanax?" Casey blurted.

"Zeke has them."

"Oh."

He kept holding Sasha's hand until they were at the train station. Upon arrival, they all got out of the car and his dad went to the back to unload Sasha's three suitcases from the trunk. Sasha didn't travel light; it was just one of those qualities that was either endearing or annoying depending on who you asked.

As the luggage was hefted from the trunk, Casey reached for a suitcase but Zeke snatched it out from under him, and Sasha already had the other two. "I can carry one," Casey said.

"That's okay, kitten — "

"I'm not a fucking cripple!"

His father reared back in shock. "Casey!" his mother exclaimed from a few feet away.

Zeke and Sasha just shared a look, not bothering to disguise it, and Sasha offered Casey the smaller of the two suitcases. Casey took it without looking at anyone and moved himself and the heavy piece of luggage into the train station as quickly as he could manage. Once he was out of the cold air he felt slightly less temperamental; he turned to face Sasha and Zeke, formulating his apology. His parents were just behind them, still looking a bit shell-shocked.

"Well," said his mom, a bit too briskly. "I think we'll say good-bye here and go wait in the car."

"Oh," Sasha said. "Well, then...Thank you, Frank...Allison...It was truly a wonderful holiday and I'm very grateful."

Casey's mom and Sasha shared a hug imbued with all their usual, easy affection. "You're welcome," Casey's mom said. "You're always welcome."

Sasha actually looked humbled, something that happened only rarely. "So we'll see you in Seattle at the end of January," he said.

"Yep," Casey's dad agreed with enthusiasm, no doubt at the prospect of attending the football game. He presented a handshake that was considerably warmer than what he had once offered to Sasha.

With another round of waves and goodbyes, Casey's parents left the train station. Then, while Sasha went to the counter to buy his ticket, Zeke directed Casey in the project of rounding up a trolley for the luggage. With the trolley and luggage secured, they found a relatively discrete space against a wall, where Casey could view most of the people in the station at the same time. When Sasha returned, the three of them stood there awkwardly together for a few minutes. There was nothing left to do but to say good-bye.

Sasha turned to Zeke first. "Have a great time in L.A."

"Yeah, sure."

Eyes narrowing, Sasha said, "Take care of him."

"Thanks for the tip."

Sasha shook his head slightly. He turned to Casey and almost got as far as a hug, hesitated, then said, "Can I talk to you privately for a second, kitten?"

Zeke puffed and shifted his weight. "Haven't you said everything ten times already?"

"Maybe I feel like saying it again," Sasha returned smoothly. He steered Casey away from Zeke, taking him just out of earshot.

"Sasha," Casey mumbled right away. "Sorry to be such a hag."

"Never mind." Sasha's long fingers touched Casey's face; he flinched before he could help himself and Sasha's hand fell away. "Tell me again. You're sure you want to go on this trip."

From a few feet away, Zeke's glower was palpable, the message shouting from him: Get on that fucking train, Sasha.

Casey steeled himself and answered, "Yes, Sasha."

"All right," Sasha said. "Kitten, I'm sorry if it seems like I don't believe in you — I do, you know." He looked up at the skylight overhead, obviously lying and fighting tears himself. "I don't know what I'm so worried about...you're way tougher than me. Just, please...remember what Dr. Chakri said about...taking care of yourself...and if you want to talk to me, you call me, no matter what the time."

"Okay."

"And don't forget to do your homework — I know you'll be having far too much fun hunting down the homes of the stars, but try to remember."

"Yes, Sasha."

"And don't forget to eat."

As he was expected to, Casey scowled.

Sasha's grin looked more like a grimace. "I'll see you in a week." He tilted his head. "There's my train, they're calling..." Casey hadn't even heard the announcement. He flung himself at Sasha, holding on with all his strength. Sasha seemed to be holding onto him just as tightly — but then suddenly he pushed him back and said, "Oh, fuck it, I can't do this upbeat thing right now. Just be okay, kitten."

"I will," Casey said.

He wished that he believed it. He wished that he wasn't such a liar.

They returned to where Zeke was waiting and smoldering. Sasha leaned in and extracted a quick hug from Zeke, just wrapping his arm around Zeke's neck and squeezing once before letting go. He canted a final look Zeke's way, one that could only be considered a warning, then grabbed his trolley. "Bye, kitten. Bye, Zeke. See you in a week or so."

He walked away with a tense set to his shoulders. Stifling the mad urge to run after him, Casey watched until he turned a corner and could no longer be seen. Something touched his shoulder; he whipped around, belatedly bringing Zeke into focus. Zeke held up his hands briefly. "Ready to go?" he asked.

Casey nodded, and fell in beside him.

The next item on the morning's agenda was to drop off Casey's mom at her work. She was the office manager at a local insurance firm, and had been for the last fifteen years. Prior to that she'd been an administrative assistant at that same firm. She'd never worked anywhere else, other than selling popcorn at the Odeon Theatre when she was a teenager. Casey remembered, years ago, wondering how she could ever stand everything being exactly the same, day in and day out. He'd wondered the same about his dad, who had worked for twenty-two years selling flooring. He'd almost been contemptuous of them but he was getting his just reward for that attitude now.

Once Casey's mom had been delivered to her office the three of them were homeward bound and there was now a vast wasteland of time looming before Casey that he didn't know how to manage. With each block that passed he was more hunched and more tense in his seat. He could almost taste hysteria rising in him, ready to burst its chemical bonds, clamouring for an act of degradation. Far too soon they were back at his house, the three of them standing just within the front door and the grotesque pressure was pressing against the back of his throat. He looked over at Zeke who was standing there in the front hall looking back at him and he very nearly said something that would have driven his father screaming from the room, something like Don't let me be empty anymore, help me, fuck me now, there's nothing to stop you.

Words tumbled from his lips nonetheless, tripping out, increasing speed as they fell. "S-so what — what should we do today, Zeke?"

They could have been harmless words except that he was switched on; he heard the demand, the invitation in his voice, and he knew that Zeke heard it too. Even his father must have heard something in that tone, for he shot a troubled look at them.

Zeke licked his lips once and said, "I don't know...get packed for tomorrow, hang out. I'll go for a walk with you if you want."

"Nah..." Sasha don't be gone why did you leave why didn't you insist...you know I can't, I can't, fucking help me I can't stop "...It's too cold." Casey found his eyes travelling slowly, making a map of Zeke's body, planting themselves on Zeke's crotch while he added softly, "You can help me pack if you want, though."

"I — don't know," Zeke said, clearing his throat.

"You know how I am." Casey thought he saw a growth, a swelling outline of Zeke's cock under his clothes. Branding himself as hopeless, he let his voice degenerate to a purr. "I'm a total sl-l...slob."

"I'm sure you can manage on your own."

"Oh, no. I need your help."

Zeke was shaking his head but he couldn't seem to not stare either. "Later, Case."

"When?"

"Much later." Turning away from Casey, Zeke said to his father, "Frank, do you think we might borrow your car — ?"

Casey felt a shudder go through him, a thrill that began in this stomach and shot instantly down into his cock...oh, yes, Zeke was just concerned about what his father would think but he was going to give Casey what he needed, he had to —

"Where are you going?" Casey's dad asked.

"Just for brunch...I thought," Zeke added, raising his brows in inquiry at Casey.

For a long second, Casey couldn't think past a haze of rage — but he hadn't lasted these almost-twenty years without learning that he could wait if he had to, so he shrugged his agreement.

Zeke went on, "I'll just call around and see who wants to join us...if it's okay."

Casey's dad was still frowning but evidently couldn't think of a reason to refuse. "Okay...I guess so."

"Thanks. I'll fill the tank up."

"Oh...well, that's good." With a final, uneasy look, Casey's dad said, "I'll be in my den..."

Zeke wandered into the kitchen to find the phone; Casey trailed after him, taking a seat nearby at the dinner table. Zeke picked up the handset, then put it down and considered Casey. "I just realized...I'm not sure where we're going," he said slowly.

"The Jam," Casey said, because it was obvious.

"I wasn't sure if we should go there."

"Why wouldn't we go there?" Casey heard himself sounding irritated and didn't care. It's for you, isn't it? It's all for you...and maybe after, you'll finally be willing to do something for me. "It's your favourite and we are leaving town tomorrow."

"But what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Yeah," Zeke insisted. "What do you want?"

"Zeke, I don't care. You're the breakfast king."

Zeke's eyes suggested that he was scanning the comment for insult. "The last time we were there was not very pleasant for you."

"I hardly remember," Casey retorted. "We can go there." He dropped into his most sensual register, aware that it would needle Zeke even further. "You know you want to."

Zeke's expression tightened. "Fine, then."

It turned out that Stokely had already returned to Seattle, but Stan was still around; upon calling his house, Zeke learned that he wasn't leaving until this afternoon, and moreover, was happy to fill his last few hours in Herrington with brunch. Delilah was at work but was willing to take early lunch and meet them at eleven.

"Do you want to drive?" Zeke asked Casey as they were heading back to the car.

Casey shook his head. "No, I like it when you drive."

Zeke came to a sudden halt. Standing on the walkway in front of their house, he said without even looking at Casey, "Is this what it's going to be like?"

"What...what'll be like?"

"I know you're nervous about Los Angeles but coming on to me isn't going to make anything easier."

"I'm not coming on to you, Zeke...and I'm not nervous about Los Angeles."

"Oh, no?"

"I'm..." Casey was now standing by the passenger side door, waiting for it to be unlocked. Fuck, but it was cold, and he wanted so much to be in Seattle, in his apartment, in his bed...or at least on his way there.

"You're what?"

"Never mind. Can you unlock the door, please?"

It was peaceful in the car for several bocks. Then, when they were almost at their destination, Zeke asked, "Case...are you sure — ?"

"Yes!" Casey exploded. "Fuck, yes, I want to, and why doesn't anyone believe me when I say I want to do something?"

Zeke shot back, "Who knows, maybe it's because it usually turns out that you're only doing it for me, not because you actually do want to?"

"I want to go to L.A. and I want to go to The Jam." Casey folded his arms. "I miss the pancakes."

After a moment of charged silence, Zeke snerked.

"Is something funny?" Casey snapped.

"Yeah. You are."

"I am not."

"Tell me you didn't intend that as a joke."

"I didn't. I don't make jokes."

Zeke snorted.

Casey would have said something else, but at that moment they were turning into the parking lot of The Jam. His vision snagged on the neon marquee, the old-fashioned diner style lettering and he instantly understood something that he hadn't understood before — that there was a difference between not remembering something and making oneself not remember. He had built a thin, brittle wall around certain past events, but with the physical setting laid out before him, the record of those minutes and hours burst through his pitiful barrier in an instant. The reel started turning and he was helpless to do anything but watch.

He knew he was sitting in a car staring at those glowing letters in daylight but at the same time he was half-naked and on foot with the letters a shimmering spangle of colour in the night sky, drawing him forward. He didn't feel at all like himself but it must have been him because there were impressions of pain, from his feet, his arm, his ass, pretty much his entire body. The rest of what he felt could be categorized as pain but the actuality was an emptiness so terrible that the word "pain" barely applied. He stumbled forward, falling and walking and crawling and thinking he might find help — find Zeke — in there.

"...all right? Case?"

Vinyl dash. Bright sunshine, faces in the diner window.

"Casey?"

He had found Zeke...no, Zeke was here and now, and now was four months later.

"Yes," Casey said thickly. "Sorry, I...my h-h-head hurts a bit."

He had to make an effort still, even though the reel was still spinning, images unfolding — Sasha gone, Sasha not here, mad at him, would never forgive him — shit, he couldn't...think straight...barely think — crooked all crooked, so filthy, so empty, so many people looking at him looking looking looking but why look when they knew him — fuck, he wasn't making any sense.

"Are you getting out of the car?"

In answer, he fumbled with the latch and the door. He thought he was doing fine but when he found his feet there was a solicitous wall of Zeke before him, reaching for him. He slapped the hands away and staggered into the restaurant, just like he had done before —

— just like before, when they were waiting for him in there. The person who greeted them at the door was one of them, one of the ones from the last time wearing a blue waitress' dress, nylons, comfortable shoes...she had smiled and warbled words and tried to get closer, probably going to touch him —

Zeke's voice sounded from somewhere near Casey. "Hello, Anne."

"How you doin', honey?"

"Good."

"Still gorgeous, I see." The alien-waitress turned her eyes on Casey. "Hello," she said to him.

"Hi," he whispered.

Zeke stated, "We need a table for four, Anne."

"Sure thing."

A hand descended on Casey's arm; he shrugged but it wouldn't move, guiding him to a booth and directing him to sit. The whole time, the alien-waitress Anne was still talking and Zeke was going along with it.

"So you're just here for Christmas, I guess?"

Zeke was going to answer that too, and Casey couldn't stand to have him talking to her. He jerked his head up. "Yeah, just here for Christmas," he said loudly.

He found that Zeke and the alien-waitress were staring at him.

"J-just...til tomorrow then we're going to — to — " to fuck finally to feel that pure release again not filthy not a stupid piece of meat that let himself be taken advantage of but not taken advantage when it was him giving himself to her finally to atone to belong " — I mean to Los— Los Angeles."

"Really — ?"

"Going to see Hollywood, see where the s-stars live — "

"And the wedding," Zeke interjected, overriding Casey. He explained, "My father is getting married."

"Oh, that's nice...excuse me, I need to get moving. It's great to see you Zeke...Casey."

As Casey watched, the alien...waitress...Anne...walked away. Meanwhile, Zeke had hunched over the table and was whispering furiously to him, "What's the matter? Should we leave?"

Casey shook his head.

"We can leave, it really doesn't matter to m — "

"No."

"Casey...I don't want a scene, please."

"No scene," he muttered thickly. "Just keep them away."

There was a movement beside him; he jerked, making a start at resistance but it was only Zeke joining him on his side of the booth, hemming him in. "This was a bad idea," Zeke said.

Casey sagged away from Zeke, moving all the way into the corner against the window. "I'll be okay — " he gulped, swallowing air as fast as he could get it down. He needed to fucking getting a grip. "Just — give me a second."

"Should I stay on this side?"

"Yes...please."

Yves would probably have some advice for him right now but he couldn't think of anything except counting so while he huddled there he filled his mind with drawings of numbers... one had a certain elegance while two and three were sinuous curves, four, a series of slashes and five was just kind of schizophrenic...By the time he got to twelve, they had stopped skittering about like free radicals bouncing and were lined up, quivering and threatening to fall out of place at any second but keeping more or less in formation.

Lifting his head, he thought that he was seeing some version of reality. This was Brunch with Zeke. Brunch with Zeke at The Jam and he could do it, he could do brunch with Zeke just like he could do Los Angeles...and he could do Los Angeles for Zeke but he couldn't wait to get to Los Angeles to have what Zeke had for him...if Zeke would only give it. Zeke had to give it...give it to him hard and fast, drill him into nothing and make a still, shimmering white of everything else...but Zeke would not. Zeke would rather eat bacon and eggs.

"Okay?" Zeke said, watching him with a slight flush.

"Yeah...but you know what would make me better?"

"Don't start..."

Casey glared right at Zeke and said, just a bit louder than necessary because he was fucking tired of watching Zeke try to squirm away from him, "A hard, dripping cock — "

"Casey, just — fucking shut up, please."

The door to the diner moved, disrupting the welcome bells and announcing a new guest, who was Stan. He waved at them unnecessarily from across the diner and came directly over to them. "Hey, guys."

"Hey," Zeke said tightly.

"Had enough of Herrington yet?"

"You could say that."

Stan tossed himself into the free side of the booth. "Dude, you have no idea how happy I am to have an excuse to get out of that house. My mom's...well, she's my mom, you know? But I think if I have to stay there one more day, one of us will die."

"Oh, yeah?" Zeke said.

"From the minute I get here she's been nagging and lecturing me and asking me all these questions about Stokely. She used to hate that Stokely and me were living in sin but now she would be so happy..."

"And to think that some people like their mothers," Zeke said, nudging Casey. It was an invitation for him to join the conversation, to act normal and put Zeke at ease but Casey didn't feel like accepting.

"Yeah..." Stan said, with a bit of an uneasy glance at Casey. "I do, too, except when she's driving me crazy. You know she and my dad gave me money for tuition?"

"That's cool."

"Yeah, it is...but she also invited our pastor to the house one day without telling me. Next thing I know I'm stuck there for two hours while he goes on and on about how God's ways are difficult to understand, how it might seem unfair that certain kinds of lifestyles are against God's law but those rules must be there for a reason."

"Yeah," Zeke said, "and the reason is that the Bible was written by a bunch of sexist, homophobic bigots."

Stan winced. "God, Zeke, don't say that so loud."

"Why not? It's a free country, isn't it?"

The alien woman in the blue uniform was back. She had silverware and menus and she asked what they wanted to drink. Casey requested water and otherwise kept an eye on her — seeing as Zeke and Stan were distracted by the task of ordering their coffee and enjoying her superficial attempts to flatter them. It was getting harder and harder to focus, though, because a thing was happening where everything was getting further away, like Casey was falling backwards down a long tunnel, his fingers scrabbling and scraping, seeking purchase but getting none.

At a great distance from him, Delilah had just arrived. "Well, look at my three boys!" she said as she sat down, kissing Zeke and then Stan on the cheek. She air- mailed one diagonally across the table to Casey. "Where's Stokely?"

"Gone back to Seattle yesterday," Stan said. "I'm on my way in a few hours."

"And you two?" Delilah asked, directing the question at Zeke.

"We're leaving tomorrow...but for L.A.."

Casey noted that Zeke's voice, like everyone else's, was coming from a great distance, barely recognizable. He tried to follow the conversation, his brain stumbling to keep up with who was speaking and to what purpose.

"Really? I'm so envious? What's it about, a honeymoon?"

"A wedding, actually. My father's."

"Oh...so you're speaking to him, are you?"

"Shut up, I already told you that."

"I just wanted to hear you say it in real time."

"Yes, I'm speaking to him. Okay? Now let's talk about something else?"

"So where's Rachel at?"

"I don't know and I don't care — something other than my family, I meant."

"Ah." A pause, then Delilah said, "What did you get for Christmas, Case?"

Oh, that was him, Case meant him...and what did you get for Christmas was...what did it mean? He had to be able to answer, he had to prove to Zeke...

It was too late; Zeke was answering for him. "I got him a digital camera."

"Wow...Zeke, you cheeseball, I think the most extravagant thing you ever got me was gift certificates for the mall."

"I didn't dare buy you anything, you'd just return it."

"True enough...so, Case, how is the shirt? Did you like it? Does it fit okay, because I was a little concerned that I bought it too small."

Casey searched his hard drive for the shirt...oh, it was the shirt that Delilah had bought for him. For Christmas. Casey hadn't tried it on yet...but he had to say something, he would say something. He pinched his thigh as hard as he could and forced out a mumble: "'s great, thanks...Del..I'll, um...wear it...to the wedding."

"Are you folks ready to order now?"

It was her again. Casey decided his best strategy for getting through this was to just not look at anything. He put his head down and listened to Delilah ordering some coffee with skim milk and artificial sweetener, an egg-white omelette with vegetables and no cheese. Stan ordered pancakes with ham and bacon, and Zeke ordered the lumberjack special, as ever. Then it was over to Casey. "Western Omelette," he whispered, keeping his eyes on the plastic-topped table.

"Thanks, folks."

"So, Stan, how's it been staying with the folks?" Delilah asked.

"The usual. For the first twenty or so hours it's like..."

Casey made his biggest mistake then; he thought to try looking up. Stan's voice was crushed by the roar in Casey's ears as he saw a man finish speaking with the alien-Anne-person and start walking towards their booth — it was him, the man from that other time who was one of them too who asked question after question, his voice getting louder and more violent and so Casey darted into the bathroom and tried to make himself tiny, to hide even though he had it in his mind that it was all over, she had won and everyone in the world was an alien except him because she had left him for some other, more terrible fate...that stall was the whole of his world, the last thing he would ever see, until he heard Zeke's voice and took the slight chance that Zeke might still be Zeke — and now that same man was approaching, tall and bulky and menacing as before and Casey was trying to be on his feet so he could flee, or fight if the man tried to stop him.

Except there was a table impeding him and something else was on his other side. His knees hit under the table, his body pitched sideways and he caught his balance by putting his elbow in the something — somebody — next to him.

"Ow, shit!"

It sounded like someone was in pain but Casey didn't have time to assess what that meant. He kicked out and punched at once, conscious of nothing except that they were coming to get him, to take him and hurt him like before so he kept struggling to the best of his ability until he heard Zeke's voice raised in a shout: "What the fuck — ! Casey, stop it...stop it!" And he was seized and almost controlled but he got free, and left with nothing else he fell back on tried and true methods, shrinking away from arms trying to grasp him until his back met obstruction.

He found himself in the corner with Zeke gaping at him, rubbing his upper shoulder. "What the fuck?" Zeke said.

The man-alien had stopped coming towards him. He was standing about ten feet away. Seeing the direction of Casey's gaze, Zeke twisted around and saw him standing there. "Gary," he said.

"Zeke...Just wanted to say hi."

"Yeah, hi. Um...do you mind maybe...sorry, Gary, but can you back off, please?"

The Gary-alien nodded. He turned around and went away, not in any hurry about it. Casey watched him put on his coat. He watched him speak briefly to one of the other waitresses. He didn't stop watching until he had left the restaurant.

"You remember him, I guess," Zeke said.

"I — I — ‘m sorry," Casey muttered.

Zeke said nothing to that.

"I'm sorry," Casey said again, quickly...and he knew that he'd fucked up. He'd fucked up bad.

"Never mind," Zeke said, sounding not terribly sympathetic. "Do you need to get up?"

"No," Casey said, too quickly. It was the last thing he wanted; at least Zeke was between him and everything else at the moment.

It was very quiet at the table. Casey figured it was up to him to re-start the conversation but he couldn't think of a single thing to say. He had never wanted out of a place so badly.

"I bought myself a new car for Christmas," Delilah announced gaily, and Stan leapt on that topic.

"Really? Wow," Stan commented. "What kind?"

"A Sunfire. It's teal green and it came with a CD player."

"Cool," Zeke said.

The food had arrived, and even if eating was just about the last thing Casey wanted to do, he let his world be comprised of Western omelette for some time, shutting out everything else as he concentrated on cutting, putting food in his mouth, chewing, swallowing. Only the fear of the bathroom in this place kept the nausea at bay.

At some point, Zeke put a hand on his shoulder. He recoiled before he could help it, and Zeke took the hand away so quickly he might have been burned. "You...ready to go?" he asked. His tone was neutral, neither kind nor cruel.

Taking a look around the table, Casey noted more or less empty plates scattered with bacon, pancake and egg debris. There was a pile of money along with the check, and Delilah and Stan were watching him with absolute pity.

"Yeah," he whispered, nodding.

Zeke stood up and gestured with his hand, offering to assist Casey out, but Casey extricated himself from the booth without touching Zeke. He felt eyes all over him as he walked out, eager for once to feel that icy blast of winter on his skin.

The four of them shaped a huddle just outside in the parking lot. Delilah said, "I wish I didn't have to get back to work."

"You don't get a lot of vacation, huh?" Stan commented.

"Nope. Just the two days. And New Year's, of course."

Casey recalled that he still had his old photos of Delilah tucked away somewhere at his parents' house and, looking at her now, he had a momentary thought of getting that camera Zeke had bought for him and taking some new ones. He'd like to be able to see her like this again — wearing a heavy coat, scarf and hat, looking like she'd just stepped off a runway. The oblique, almost-January light was good to her.

She saw him looking, smiled a bit knowingly, then leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. He kept still for it with an effort. "Take care, Case," she said. "I probably won't see you again until next Christmas."

"You should come visit us in Seattle," Zeke observed.

"Maybe, if I can get time off." Delilah distributed more kisses, then hopped into her new, teal-green car. A basso-profundo, chunky hip-hop beat started up along with the engine, rattling the windows. Waving once, she drove off, taking the parking lot just a little bit faster than was really practical.

"Well, I'm off too," said Stan.

"Okay, see you," Zeke replied.

"Bye, Case...see you in Seattle."

And then Stan was gone also, leaving Casey to face Zeke.

Getting back in frigid car was as unpleasant as ever. Casey's dad had never sprung for an automatic car starter, so the warmth that had been achieved prior to breakfast was completely dissipated. The seats felt hard, the vinyl was icy to the touch and the engine coughed and sputtered a few times before starting. Casey knew from experience that the air that was pouring out of the vents wouldn't become heat for several minutes at least. He hunkered into his coat, keeping his hands in his pockets.

For a time, Zeke was just sitting there next to him, letting the engine warm while he deliberated over the dashboard. Then he asked with a dangerous quietness, "What happened in there?"

Casey wasn't sure what he meant by that. He would have thought it was obvious what had happened, and therefore Zeke was just being punitive in expecting him to describe it.

"I'm waiting, Casey."

Rage boiled up within Casey, a curious sort of inferno when the external senses registered nothing but cold. He spat, "I don't have to explain anything to you."

Zeke's head spun with such intended significance that Casey shivered. He tried not to flinch.

"Really?" Zeke said softly. "You don't have to explain to me why you elbowed me in the crotch and kicked me in the shins. You don't have to explain why you insisted that we go to the Jam even though you basically fell apart the second we got there."

"I didn't — " Casey started, and gave up. He couldn't see the point of spinning his usual nonsense, not when he had no explanation that Zeke would actually want to hear.

"Didn't what?"

Casey set his jaw so hard that it ached with tension.

Zeke didn't so much sigh as breathe explosively. He put the car in gear.

A few minutes later, when he turned onto Wood Street rather than Harman Drive, Casey realized that Zeke wasn't taking them home. "Where are we going?" he asked.

"Just for a drive."

"It's cold, Zeke."

"The car'll be warmer in a few minutes."

"My dad won't like it."

"I'll bring it back in one piece and with a full tank of gas. He'll deal."

Casey knew from that tone that Zeke was not going to be dissuaded — and he was perfectly aware of what Zeke was up to — as in, not wanting to go back home so he wouldn't have to be tempted by Casey. As though they weren't going to be together in a hotel room very soon, completely alone with no Sasha's and no anxious parents. Well, Zeke would run out of distractions soon enough.

Fifteen minutes later, the interior of the car was beginning to thaw slightly.

"Okay," Zeke said. "You don't have to explain anything, but I'm asking. Please."

Casey hadn't been expecting to hear his voice until they were in his parents' driveway. It took him a few seconds to catch up to the idea that Zeke was conceding something, and then he couldn't quite recall what he was supposed to explain. "Um...what did you want to know?"

"What happened in the Jam," Zeke said, using his most patient voice. "I wondered...if you remembered something or if it was...a more general sort of panic."

"It was...the usual," Casey said. It was not a very good lie, with his voice all tiny and obvious. He'd done much better.

"Do you think it would have happened if Sasha had been with us?"

There was danger there. The tone was idle, almost careless, but Casey perceived the undercurrent of pain. "I probably would have ended up kicking him instead of you," he answered.

"I'm not so sure."

"Zeke...I'm sorry I did that, it was just...when I got in there I started to remember things...I didn't think I would."

"That's what I thought," was Zeke's reply. He made a right onto Front Street.

"Aren't we...going home?"

"Not just yet."

Shortly, they were at Herrington Park, a small, city-owned stretch of picnic and parking spaces that ran along the riverbank. Zeke turned in and parked the car in a slot facing the water. He gazed out at it, not turning to Casey, not saying anything to him.

"Zeke? What are we doing here?"

Still Zeke didn't move or speak — and now dread rose up in Casey like a wall, filling every cavity, every living cell in his body. After all the Zeke Tyler silences that Casey had known, he could tell instantly that this was a different one, a deadly one. This was Zeke getting ready to say Something, and when Zeke turned to Casey it would be with the full weight of all his thinking behind it.

As before, Casey found himself articulating whatever the craziness called for, simply opening his mouth and releasing the words even while the more sane part of him knew that they would not be well-received. He muttered, "So...are we going to fuck in the back seat, then?"

There was no doubt about it; he had provoked a reaction. He saw it in Zeke's eyes and it had him trembling even harder than a moment ago — Zeke wanted him to stop, to lay off, back off, quit being this way but Zeke had no fucking clue, no idea what he was capable of, how low he could sink and if he was expected to wind down just because Zeke was scared...well, Zeke had no idea what he was dealing with.

"You can't avoid me by staying in this car all day," Casey declared.

Zeke made a sound, just a little noise.

"We are going to be sharing a hotel room, aren't we? It's going to happen...so why not now? You've always wanted to do me in a car. Now's your chance."

Zeke didn't answer, and Casey knew that he was not helping his own cause at all but he just couldn't stop. He needed Zeke. He needed and Zeke had to understand that.

"C'mon, Zeke...what's a few days one way or the other."

Zeke unbuckled his seatbelt. He stated, "Before we go anywhere tomorrow, we need to talk."

And finally, he turned in Casey's direction. Casey looked into his eyes and saw the end.

 

"So are we going to fuck in the back seat, then?"

There were places on Zeke's arms and shins where Casey had struck him while lashing out in his latest histrionic rage. True, Zeke had seen him that way many times but this was the worst yet — because Casey had truly seemed to want to hurt him. Those sites on his body where Casey had struck were tender and they would certainly bruise, but that hurt was temporary. The rest of what Zeke was feeling was worse, and it was going to endure for some time.

Literally from the moment that Sasha had passed from Casey's view this morning, Zeke's dream of a relatively peaceful long weekend in Los Angeles had been dying a slow death. Well, if he was honest with himself, it had pretty much been dead yesterday but he had ignored that, good soldier that he was. He'd gotten up today with a sick feeling inside and tried to ignore that too. He'd known that going to the Jam was a bad idea, but a cold little part of him wanted to see just what Casey could handle. And now he fucking knew.

"You can't avoid me by staying in this car all day."

The tone was contemptuous, more than slightly sardonic and absolutely demanding — but all Zeke really heard was fear. He knew the fear was real, knew that Casey probably felt that he couldn't help himself. He also knew that if they went to Los Angeles together, at some point or another Zeke was going to be dealing with Casey's complete and utter meltdown when he discovered that sex was not going to proceed as scheduled.

"We are going to be sharing a hotel room, aren't we? It's going to happen..so why not now? You've always wanted to do me in a car. Now's your chance. C'mon, Zeke...What's a few days one way or the other."

The body opposite Zeke was shaking visibly, and Zeke knew that whatever it seemed that Casey was begging for, he was actually making a plea for help. He couldn't blame Casey for this debacle; Casey had given him the information that he needed an entire month ago and he'd done nothing with it. That wasn't entirely his fault either, but the result was the same either way.

Casey couldn't go to Los Angeles. Sasha had been trying to tell him but he was too thickheaded to grasp it, too preoccupied with having Casey to himself finally. He had seen Casey's growing apprehension but he hadn't understood just how much Casey could withhold, or that he would be able to hang on just until Sasha was no longer around to get in the way and not one moment more. Zeke couldn't trust Casey to be honest with him about what he was feeling, what he could handle — which was nothing. Today's breakfast was the perfect demonstration, and just a taste of what was to come if Zeke didn't stop it. He felt like an idiot for not figuring it out before Sasha got on that train. It was damned inconvenient and he really should have figured out a way to handle this sooner — but this was life. It got messy, reality was inconvenient and things like jealousy, resentment, hurt — and yes, love — got in the way.

Time to clean up the mess.

He braced himself for the anarchy that was to come and told Casey, "Before we go anywhere tomorrow, we need to talk."

Casey was no idiot; he knew what was happening. His face was that of a person watching his worst fear coming true. It didn't look like he was breathing.

"Casey, there's no reason to panic now. I need to be straight with you about some things...because I want to help, you understand? That's why I'm..." Zeke hated hearing himself talk like some talk-show host or self-help guru. He was just no good at this stuff, but he could only continue and try to say it all while he could. "Okay, it's me being selfish but I want you to be better, I want you to be like — like the person you were pretending to be on Christmas Day. I'm tired of the games and the back and forth and trying to guess what's best for you — I'm tired of it, just really, fucking tired. I don't want to do it anymore, and I guess that makes me a selfish prick but obviously the unselfish approach hasn't helped you much."

Zeke stopped, looking for some sign that Casey was hearing him. He saw a void where eyes should be, a rigid body that could have been marble rather than living flesh, the posture was so still and cold.

"Are you listening, Casey?"

Suddenly, the statue breathed. It shuddered...nearly pitched over. "Don't do this."

"It isn't want you think. I don't want us to be apart, I don't want to let you go, but I've...felt so totally out of whack the last little while."

It was painful to see Casey struggling just to form words. "You — but you can't — you can't control — "

"I know I can't control everything, Casey, but I really don't like this, I don't like feeling like I could do anything and you wouldn't stop me...I can't even tell what makes sense anymore. Do you like that feeling?"

"Yes — "

"You say that, but I don't think you mean it. You tell yourself you do, but you don't." Zeke put a hand on Casey's shoulder, even now thrilling to the knowledge of fine bones and muscle beneath fabric and skin. "Spadoni told me once if we tried to live without boundaries we'd lose ourselves and I told him off at the time...but I'm afraid he was right. I don't want him to be right...because it's been good. It has, it's been amazing, but for now it has to stop."

Just when Zeke thought Casey couldn't surprise him anymore, he managed it — by shaking off Zeke's hand, pulling himself up and, with the most frail, brittle dignity, telling Zeke, "Whatever you want to say...just say it. I'm not up for any philosophy right now."

Zeke would have smiled if he thought he could get away from it. Casey was going to be okay; he knew it even if Casey refused to. "Okay, you're right. What I want to say is...the one month break is going to have to continue indefinitely. I'm sorry, Casey. This is not a punishment, it's just...what has to happen right now."

Casey's eyes closed.

"Casey? Are you hearing me?"

"Yes."

"What do you hear?"

Casey sounded dead when he spoke: "That it's over."

"No — dammit, will you just fucking listen?" Maybe Zeke was not being as patient as he should be now — but he was so tired of battling Casey's delusions. He just couldn't do that shit anymore. "We're still together, Casey. All I'm trying to say is that the one month break isn't long enough."

"How long is...long enough?"

"I don't know...until you have some boundaries, until you start being honest with me about what you want and what you don't want...until you stop being afraid of me, maybe? And I'll do whatever it takes to help you, Casey, I'll go to therapy, delve into my childhood, talk about my toilet training if I have to — "

"What good is that?" Casey asked, his voice dull. "I'm the one who's fucked up, I'm the one who wrecked it all..."

"No, you're not. I'm fucked up too, okay? I admit it, I'm a control freak and all of that. I should have been more open to how you wanted to deal with Yves. If I had been, maybe you wouldn't have felt like you had to tell her what you told her."

"I did have to tell her."

"No, you didn't but like I said before, that's your choice."

"That's what this is all about," Casey blurted. Simultaneously, he shed his stillness and began to quiver. "You're mad at me and that's why you don't want to be with me."

Zeke gave momentary thought to holding back, but any tentative sally of tolerance was quickly overrun by an army of anger. "Okay. Yes. I was pissed about that and I'm still pissed...but that is not why I'm doing this."

"I think it is."

"What you think I'm thinking and what I'm actually thinking are two different things, Casey!" Zeke noticed that Casey had shrunk back against the window and realized that he had just bellowed. Even so, he could only reduce the volume slightly. "You want to talk about who's punishing who? You think the past month has been a picnic for me? Sleeping by myself, pretty much by myself all the time while you and Sasha are all cozy together and I can't stop thinking about how you — and Sasha always Sasha — decided to spill the beans to Yves without talking to me, after everything I did to try and keep you safe! I mean — fuck, what is about you that you just won't keep your fucking mouth shut!"

Dimly, Zeke realized he had lost the thread of reason in this conversation. His lover was gaping at him, almost shattered, and all Zeke knew was that he was nowhere near done.

Casey choked, "As — as far as keeping my mouth shut...okay, why should I shut up like...you and everyone else did a fine job of that."

Zeke was careful not to flinch; this was a core issue that would have to be faced and he was not going to lose ground because of it. He ran a hand through his hair and noted, idly, that it was shaking. "Maybe you're right," he conceded, "Maybe I let you down back then, right after they came...but I didn't want to get into that right now. I wanted to ask you to stop the dares and the staring and the double meanings and the touching...I need you to stop all of it. Will you promise me?"

"What if I don't?" Casey asked, defiantly lifting his chin. His mouth trembled just slightly.

"Okay, Casey, let's get something straight — I'm not going to have sex with you. Not now, not in Los Angeles — whatever you do or say. I'm asking you to stop because it will make it more bearable for both of us, not because I'm going to give in if you don't."

Before Zeke's eyes, the inevitable was starting; the fragile poise that Casey had exhibited was giving way to a distorted version of himself that was only interested in what it could destroy. "Case," Zeke pleaded, hoping to hold it back, keep it from taking over. "Don't you understand...I feel like I've been completely out of control for months and I'm just starting to get a few things straight."

"Hmm...congratulations to you," Casey whispered. "Too bad for me."

"But this is for you. It's for both of us. I wouldn't care about being out of control if it didn't mean that I...I was hurting you."

"Fuck you."

"Casey — "

"You're hurting me now but I don't see you stopping that."

"What do you want me to do, just hop into the back seat with you?"

"That's exactly what I want."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I can't just ignore the reality — not anymore."

Casey turned his head all the way to the right. Zeke could see his jaw working and thought that he was crying. When he turned back, however, it seemed that the emotion was something else altogether. "What reality..." Casey said softly, his breath hitching with rage. His eyes were flinty and cold even though terrified. "The one you made up where everything has to be under control..."

Zeke made an attempt to touch him, resting a hand almost on his shoulder but he cried out and contorted his body wildly to get Zeke's hand off him. Zeke knew not to try again. He shifted back, leaving at least a foot of space between them.

"No," he said quietly. "I'm talking about this reality — the one where you flinch when I touch you."

"I don't — do that."

"Casey...do you see yourself at all? You're angry at me for saying I won't have sex with you and at the same time you're pushing my hand away. You keep freaking out when someone looks at you the wrong way. You know what this is about, Casey, and it's not the fucking aliens, it's the other stuff — "

"Shut up!"

"No, Casey," Zeke replied, "I can't shut up about it. That was what you said to me, right? Well, guess what...that works both ways. It's too late to shut up about it, why would you have told me, why would you have given me the key if you didn't want me to use it?"

Casey was pressing closer and closer to the door. "I don't know what you're talking about." He was shuddering now too, his body language all about confinement and panic and needing to escape. "I don't know..."

Seeing him like this, Zeke was forced to call a time-out for himself. He hadn't intended to bring this stuff up right now — but he'd just proved his own point, he'd lost control again. Now he was in a situation where it would be cruel to stop what he had started. Anything less than a full commitment to this course would be cowardly and ultimately more harmful.

"The night you hit Winona..." he resumed. "You told me and Sasha something."

"I didn't."

Zeke decided to accept that Casey might have forgotten — even if he rather suspected that it was a willful forgetting. "You don't remember what you said?"

"I didn't say anything...there's nothing...nothing to remember."

"Casey, I'm sorry, but I have to remind you now."

"No."

"I'm afraid you can't say no this time, not to me."

The expression Casey wore was one of absolute hopelessness. "If you're going to leave me," he breathed, "just do it. Don't try to fucking help me first."

"I'm not leaving you," Zeke returned. "I'm never letting you go — and I am helping you, even if it might not seem like it now. You've been badly hurt, Casey, and it shows in so many ways. It was wrong of me to try to ignore it." Except there was a little voice that said Maybe you're wrong now, maybe you were right before and wrong now...or you're wrong both times...you're just wrong whatever you do.

But he couldn't accept that. For him, there always had to be an answer. He couldn't move ahead otherwise.

While he was in the process of realizing for the second or third time that he could only continue, Casey had turned from desperation to self-destructive rage. He cried at Zeke, "You can't fix me. You say what you want and go away feeling pleased with yourself — but I'm still going to be what I am."

There were so many things that Zeke could have said to that...things that were true but not at all benevolent, things that would have served no purpose but to hurt Casey. He asked tiredly, "Which is what?" even while knowing that he wasn't going to get any useful information in reply.

Casey tilted his head and at that very moment was transformed into that creature that sometimes spoke as Casey and still frightened Zeke no matter how many times he saw it appear. "I think slut was the word you used," said the creature with a peculiar smile.

"How many times — "

"You want me to tell you about the hotel? Fine. After you found out about us...I ran to Roy. He wanted me to come back to Cincinnati with him and I was going to go — but of course I wanted him to fuck me first. And he was happy to do it — it just turned out he'd brought a friend along."

"His wife."

"If you want to call her that...She came for me."

"Because Roy wanted it."

"I wanted it. I wanted to give myself to her. She said it would be beautiful and she didn't lie. It was beautiful."

"Casey, listen to me. You weren't well. You were delirious and this woman and her ratfuck husband took advantage of you. There's nothing beautiful about that."

"Oh...you're so right, Zeke." Casey smiled, his teeth stretching to a rictus, a brutal caricature of a smile. "Because she left me and he left me too and then I was alone again...you have no idea how cold it was. I'll do anything not to feel like that again. Anything...so I guess that does make me a slut but I don't mind."

"It doesn't make you a slut, Casey, it makes you a victim!"

The cold eyes began to burn. "Don't you say that."

"It's the truth."

"Don't you...you shut up!" Casey hissed. He tried to hit Zeke, without much success. The angles were awkward and he was too upset to control his blow. Zeke was easily able to brush it off and take hold of one forearm and the other wrist.

"Tell me you consented to what happened," Zeke gritted, holding Casey's fists at a distance.

"I did...and I loved it."

"You were used and hurt and that's the whole story."

"I wanted it. I wanted it and...I didn't stop there either, I said I'd do anything and I did."

"Would you just — for once — give it up and be honest — "

"I fucked Thomas."

Zeke's grip on Casey loosened; it fell away as he tried to process what he had just heard. "You...you what?"

"Fucked him."

Zeke couldn't seem to think of the right response, the one that would erase those words, make them into a nullity. He stammered like an idiot. "You — Thomas — but — "

"I lied to you before," Casey declared, almost triumphantly. His derisive smile wavered once and held steady.

"How — ? I mean — "

"The night I ran away and you found me in the fog I went with Thomas to his car." Now the dead, awful leer was starting to crumble. "H-he was — always — running into me. I knew what he wanted but you know — he really did need a little convincing — "

Casey broke off as Zeke's fist raised itself. He didn't flinch; he just stared at it, waited for it. It hovered, then fell — but not for a blow. Instead, Zeke got hold of both of Casey's arms again and wrenched him close, not caring if he broke him. Casey was like a rag doll, offering neither resistance nor participation.

"You're an amazing liar," Zeke snarled.

"I know," Casey gasped. There was a half-smile frozen on his face and tears standing in his eyes.

Zeke was not unaware of why Casey had elected to give him this information now. Casey wanted to goad and taunt him, to get him where all his insecurities and hang-ups lived — and fuck if he hadn't done a bang-up job. He was going to reap the benefits of it too, because Zeke was going to follow through with Casey's original proposal. He was going to really show him who he belonged to, he was going to drag him into the back seat and fuck him until he bled —

Fuck him until he bled.

Fuck. Fucking motherfucker.

As he pressed his fingers into Casey's upper arms and watched the pleasant spectacle of Casey's face twisting in pain, he hissed, "I'm not that easy to manipulate. You think you can just drop a little bomb like that and get me to lose control — well, you can't. I'm not going to hit you. I'm not going to fuck you and I..." His voice almost splintered. He held it together through an act of sheer will. "I'll probably even forgive you."

He released Casey from his grip...but he couldn't look at him. He stared at the river...it was a snaky, frozen little thing. He examined the nearest picnic table...a beat up and over-used item, topped with a few icy crusts. Finally, he let himself be fascinated by the Chrysler hood ornament on the car in which he was sitting. There was nothing much to be thought about that object; it was what it was, a metal-wrought symbol of nothing important.

When he eventually spoke, he was nearly calm but he sounded far from normal to his own ears. "We're going back in a few minutes," he said. "But first we're going to finish this."

"Finished," muttered Casey.

"Oh, I don't think so."

Zeke twisted to confront his...lover, boyfriend, enemy — he didn't know anymore. He saw the glistening eyes, the complexion gone sickly-damp and white, the features that shook with self-hate. And it was all still beautiful to Zeke, only he wanted nothing but to run away from it. He was not going to, though. Not yet.

"I'll forgive you, Casey. Not just yet, but eventually."

"Why?" Casey whispered. "Why would you?"

"Because I know what happened to you and I know you're acting out." Zeke knew how hard he sounded, but he didn't stop. "Fuck, Casey...you're so...so textbook, it's sad."

A tremor of confusion on the clammy face before him.

Zeke continued, "Yeah, I've done a little reading lately — seems that I had some time to kill, even with the exams. You're like a checklist, Casey...denial, shame, rage...deliberate promiscuity so you can maintain the fantasy that you consented."

"Fuck you," Casey whispered.

"Thanks, but no thanks." Zeke was ready when Casey reached for the door handle, missing pretty badly. In either case it wouldn't have mattered; Zeke seized his arm first. "You're not going anywhere." Whimpering, Casey tried to grip the handle and Zeke pulled hard on his limb. "Let go of that. I'm not finished with you."

Slowly, Casey uncurled his hand; his shoulders sagged. This was the final incarnation of Casey, the one that Zeke had yet to see today. It was Casey surrendering. Ready to let Zeke commit whatever crime he wanted.

And Zeke pitied him, but only in a distant, uninvolved way. Pity had been how Casey had gained all his power over him — and even over Sasha. Casey had had them right where he wanted them for months. Every time they pushed he fell apart right on cue and they would cave and tiptoe around, afraid to say anything in case he couldn't handle it. But the thing was, Casey wasn't handling much of anything these days, despite their best efforts at silence.

"So...let's summarize. You went to Roy looking for comfort — and yes, sex, because that's what you equate to comfort. And he was there with his wife, Janice, and he wanted you to have sex with her, or both of them together, which was it, Casey?"

No answer.

"Casey? Come on, you're not zoning here."

"Wh-what?" Casey blinked at him, doing a believable job of terrified and bewildered. Zeke's gut and head were aching but he could only press forward. He couldn't leave this undone any more than he could have begun to set a broken limb and stopped halfway through because the patient was screaming.

"I guess it's not important. Roy said you should be a family...that's what you told us. His solution to the problem I guess. And you said no..."

Casey just looked blankly at Zeke as Zeke leaned in, bracing an arm in front of him, flattening him back against the seat.

"You said no...and then?"

"He — convinced me."

"How? Did he threaten you with something? Threaten to leave you?"

Tears were pouring freely now. "Please stop...please..."

"I'll stop soon, I promise...How did he convince you — or did he? Did he just force you? I need to know, Casey."

"Didn't force...me...he took me and I thought I wouldn't have to come back...but I did, and then she was there. I was so scared...but I wanted it to stop."

"What to stop?"

Casey whispered, "Everything."

Hearing that, Zeke wanted nothing so much as to get back to somewhere that he could have privacy...maybe do a little howling. But he needed to hear Casey confess a bit more first. "So you had sex with both of them even though you didn't want to."

Casey twitched and shuddered.

"Tell me," Zeke pressed.

"'m...Zeke...gonna throw up."

He was about to call Casey's bluff by telling him to go right ahead, but taking a good look at Casey's face he had to admit that there was an undeniably greenish tinge there. He moved back, giving Casey his space. He saw Casey's jaw working and was momentarily afraid that Casey really was going to puke in his father's car but suddenly Casey had his seatbelt unbuckled — funny, thought Zeke, that Casey had been strapped in all this time — and was almost falling out his door.

Zeke shifted until he was back in the driver's seat. Facing the windshield, he put a hand over his face and rubbed his eyes while he listened to Casey choking and heaving. It went on and on until Zeke was ready to break and go help him, but it was right about then that Casey settled enough that he could drag himself back into the car and shut the door.

They sat in silence, more or less. Zeke could nevertheless see Casey's torso hitching out of the corner of his eye; he couldn't look or he would surrender to the insidious urge to give comfort. He gave Casey a minute or two to calm down, then started the car and got it in gear. "Put your seatbelt on," he said.

He waited until it was apparent that Casey was not going to comply, then reached across him and did it for him, still careful to avoid seeing him.

They drove back to the Connors' in silence. When they were sitting in the driveway Zeke turned off the engine, removed his seatbelt and said, "Casey."

He had no idea if Casey was going to hear this, but he had to try.

"Casey...what happened to you in that hotel room was bad. Maybe even illegal, I don't know but I do know that you need to deal with it. Until you do, we can't be together. We can live together in the apartment but we can't be together."

There was no response from Casey.

"I'm going to Los Angeles tomorrow and...I'd prefer that you go home to Seattle. Sasha was right, you're much better off with him right now and I...I want to go by myself." He didn't dare look for Casey's reaction to this. "When I get back...and I am coming back...we'll talk and I'll be much more compassionate than I've been today. I'm sure I'll want to apologize too, but...not right now."

He paused, listened, heard nothing.

"Let's go in before it gets too cold."

Turning just so he could catch a glimpse of Casey's profile, he was more than half-prepared to deal with a zone-out. In fact, he wouldn't have been surprised if Casey had dissociated somewhere back around Front Street. But again, Zeke was astonished. After a short interval of just a few seconds, Casey reached to unbuckle himself. He fumbled at it, his hands tripping at the task; Zeke was about to attempt to help him when he finally got it. He had more success with the door handle. Climbing out, he walked to the front door with an almost drunken, detached gait and let himself in. Zeke followed immediately behind.

That was where Casey seemed to lose momentum. Standing just behind him, Zeke waited for a whole minute and again was about to intervene when Casey initiated some motion on his own. He slipped his foot out of one boot — but then just stood that way, wearing the other one.

Zeke sighed, "Casey..."

He was unprepared when Casey turned towards him, catching him by the eyes. There was no visible emotion on his face, not the slightest bit of expression. Zeke abandoned what he was going to say, which was pretty useless anyway, and reached out to help Casey remove his gear.

At that, there was a rush of something in Casey's face, a flicker of something intense and ungovernable. Zeke expected to be struck but Casey didn't hit out, he just pushed him away — but slowly. A couple of fat tears remained after the gesture, the only evidence that he had felt something.

"That was a pretty long brunch — !"

It was Casey's father, standing in the space that divided the front hall from the kitchen.

"Yeah, service was slow," Zeke returned, and half-averted his gaze from Casey. He held out the keys. "Thanks for letting us use the car."

"No problem..." Frank Connor received the keys, frowning as he took in his son's posture. "Hey, pal, you planning on wearing that one boot to bed or something?"

Casey blinked as though his father were speaking a foreign language. "No," he intoned. He lifted the foot in question and tried shaking off the boot. It clung stubbornly to his foot. About several hard shakes he resorted to a manic kicking motion. Zeke didn't dare try to assist him lest he get booted in the head.

"Here, let me," Frank said, his eyes rounding with dismay. Risking injury, he knelt down and quickly put both hands on Casey to still him. Casey obliged him and let him complete the removal of the offending article. Dropping the boot aside, Frank straightened up with a bit of a groan and put his hands on his hips, stretching left and right a bit. Then he demanded, "What's wrong? What's going on here?"

Shrugging off his coat, Casey brushed around his father and went silently up the stairs, making no answer and no sound on the carpeted stairs. A door closed on the second floor with a crisp report, just short of a slam. Zeke would have liked to indulge in a similar performance, but he knew better than to try. He raised his brows at Frank, acquiescing to the inevitable interrogation.

Frank had picked Casey's coat up from the floor. "What's going on?" he demanded. Rather than putting the coat in the closet, he took a short-cut and hanged it on the nearby door knob. "What did you do? Why were you gone so long?"

Zeke thought about a number of possible answers and decided to go with straightforward information. "Casey's not going to Los Angeles."

A number of reactions battled for priority in Frank's face, but relief came out on top, trailed closely by annoyance. "When was this decided?"

"Just now."

"Did you have to wait until Sasha left?"

Zeke bristled even though he knew it was a fair comment. "Unfortunately, yes," he shot back, aware that he was coming off as quite absurd.

Frank folded his arms and said, "You're still going to your father's wedding."

"Yes..."

"So Casey would be flying to Seattle on his own."

Zeke started, "He'll be..." and couldn't finish it, couldn't say the word fine because it just didn't apply. In theory there was no reason why Casey shouldn't be able to do it, but in practice was another thing altogether; Zeke could walk Casey right to his departure gate and stand there with him until he had to go through it but that wouldn't be sufficient to allay worries or satisfy his own sense of responsibility. He concluded out loud, "I guess I'm going to have to fly to Seattle too, and change my flight so I can go from there to Los Angeles."

"Now just hold the fort for a second," Frank said. "I somehow don't think that it's necessary for you to do that."

"He can't travel alone," Zeke said through gritted teeth.

"I know that...but I could travel with him, or his mother could."

Zeke blinked. "You...you would?"

The look that Frank gave him was little short of disgust. "I'm his father. Everything isn't just up to you, you know."

"Oh," Zeke said. He knew how dense he sounded — but that particular message coming from this particular man was just about the last thing he would have anticipated.

They both heard a door open upstairs; then footsteps, and another door. Zeke surmised that Casey had just moved from bathroom to bedroom; Casey was predictable that way.

"I'm going to talk to my son," Frank declared, and started up the stairs.

"Be my guest," Zeke muttered wearily.

He went into the living room to sit for a few minutes. His body felt heavier than normal, sodden and lifeless. He wondered if this could be what grief felt like. It was not fucking pleasant.

His traitorous brain was already taking advantage of the opportunity to torment him, brandishing memories before his mind's eye...himself sitting next to Casey here on Christmas Day, excessively pleased by the sound of him reading Trivial Pursuit questions...sleeping with Casey on this very couch...watching Casey discover what he had received from friends and family, delighting when he made a joke about using Frank's credit card to buy him his gift...and fuck if Zeke hadn't bought it too, for that day. He always bought whatever Casey was selling.

Well, sitting here in mourning wasn't going to accomplish much. It wouldn't get him away from this place and that person any sooner — so he needed tasks, a list of items to complete. One major item, apart from the various conversations he needed to have with airlines, was to call Sasha. Except Sasha was probably in the air at this very moment. He wouldn't be in Seattle until around supper time.

It occurred to Zeke now that he had a moment to reflect that Sasha was probably going to kill him. No, first Sasha was going to ridicule him for being contrary and difficult all day yesterday and then, almost the second that Sasha left today, deciding that Casey needed to go home. But after Sasha found out what Zeke had said and done to Casey, he would kill him.

On the other hand, though...fuck Sasha and fuck Casey Connor.

The Christmas tree was still all sparkly and cute and Zeke thought with jaundiced pleasure of tearing it down, making a really nice bonfire of it. Right where he sat now, Casey had lied — and he'd lied quite skillfully but Zeke still couldn't believe that he'd been so stupid. He had known for some time that Casey was not in the habit of telling the truth, and yet all it took was a dash of eyelash-batting and a jot of nervous hand-wringing for Zeke to fall for it, like one of those burn-outs he used to con into buying his over-the-counter shit. Suppressing the cries of intuition and reason, he ate his pap and held his lover all through the night.

Zeke didn't realize Frank had come back downstairs until the man was almost standing right in front of him. Wearing a frown that was both mystified and distressed, Frank informed Zeke, "He won't talk to me."

Zeke almost said it: And this shocks you?

Frank continued, "I'll go with Casey to Seattle tomorrow. If you can find a flight for us that leaves roughly around the same time...hopefully Allison can get tomorrow free to drive us all to Cincinnati."

"That's not necessary, is it?"

"I don't like the train very much and I think...it's just as well if we go in the car."

Zeke nodded. "Thank you," he said hoarsely.

"No need to thank me."

In desperate need of a task, Zeke requested, "Can I use your computer?"

"Sure...why, though?"

"I need to book the tickets."

Clearly this was a method of organizing travel of which Frank Connor knew nothing. He nodded, still presenting that face of perplexity...and, quite evidently, he was getting ready to say something. Zeke couldn't think of a way to get out of there quickly enough to avoid it, so he decided it was best to speak up before Frank could formulate his question.

"You probably think I've done something to him," Zeke said. "You want to know what it is so you can rake me over the coals, huh?"

Frank shook his head. "I'd just like to know what's going on."

Understandable — but as far as Zeke was concerned it was not a subject for parents, and certainly not Casey's parents. "I can't really explain it."

Casey's father snorted a laugh. "That's what he said." The dregs of the smile already fading, he added, "I'd just like to get something."

Zeke didn't have anything to say. He didn't think that Frank Connor would be receptive to platitudes or expressions of pity.

He went to Frank's den and spent the next hour or so searching for flights. The computer was a bit older than Casey's and the Connors were still using dial-up, so it was a slow process. Zeke didn't mind. He took his time and was very thorough, comparing prices and potential departure times, and finally booked two tickets for a two- thirty flight the following day. The flight that was to have taken him and Casey to Los Angeles left Cincinnati at three; he didn't think he would be able to get a refund for Casey's ticket so he didn't bother to try to cancel it.

When he emerged from the den, he found that Casey's father seemed be hovering in the hall. "Done?" Frank asked.

"Yes. You and Casey have tickets for two-thirty tomorrow on Delta. No stops."

"And..." The man looked positively twitchy. "What do I owe you?"

Zeke made a point of not rolling his eyes. "Nothing."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Don't sweat it."

"Well...thank you...You'll call Sasha and ask him to meet us?"

Zeke had just noted the time on the computer monitor and knew that Sasha's plane would have landed roughly ten minutes ago, assuming no delays. "I will call him...but I don't know if he'll be able to do that, he works at night." Something told him that it was a good idea to be away from the Connor home when he called Sasha. He didn't want even the slightest chance that Casey would overhear him, or Frank or Allison for that matter. He added, "You know, I just realized I forgot to fill the gas tank on your car. I'd like to take it and get it filled up if you don't mind."

"Oh, well...sure, I guess."

The huge sedan was glacial all over again. Zeke let it run for a minute then cranked the heat up, not that there was anything like heat coming from those vents just yet. Rather than wait for it, he set out immediately for his old Starbucks and, upon arrival, went in to sit for a while. He decided on a decaf latte, figuring he wouldn't need any added barriers to sleep tonight. While sipping his latte, he had some thoughts about calling Delilah to meet him but he couldn't think of what he expected to accomplish by talking to her. He would much rather talk to Sasha — and now his watch said that it was just past four and as long as Jerry hadn't high jacked Sasha for any other activities, he should be home.

In fact, it was Jerry who answered their phone. "Hello?"

"Hi...Jerry, it's Zeke."

"Oh, hey, man, how are you? How was your Christmas?"

"Fine. Um...can I talk to Sasha, please?"

"Sure. Just a sec."

There was some obscure noise and a murmuring in the background, and then Sasha said, "Zeke?

"Yeah."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, just — okay, not nothing but just chill for a sec."

"Okay," Sasha said, but in his language that actually translated as Tell me instantly.

"I wanted to let you know that...well, Casey is coming home tomorrow."

"Casey is? What about you?"

"I'm going to Los Angeles. Casey's father is coming home with him."

"Tomorrow? When?"

"The flight will be in at four something. Delta Flight 543."

There was a pause and perhaps the faint sound of a pen scratching. "I have to work, Zeke, or I'd meet them — well, I could talk to Oliver, beg him or something."

"Sasha, they can take a cab."

"Hang on..." Sasha was having a slightly muffled conversation with Jerry. "Are you sure? But you don't have to...okay. Zeke, Jerry's going to pick them up. He's been working every night for the past two weeks and he says the floor manager promised him a night off."

"Well...okay. Tell him thanks."

"Zeke says thanks," Sasha echoed. Having negotiated more personalized transportation for his friends, Sasha immediately turned to what had to be, for him, the more salient issue. "But what made you decide this? I mean...why isn't he going all of a sudden? After all that arguing yesterday..."

Zeke's throat began to ache. He said, fighting to be casual, "Today I had a big... talk with Casey."

"I see," Sasha replied, tension carefully reined in but still present in his voice. "About?"

"I told him we had to — " Fuck if he wasn't actually quivering and this wouldn't do, not at all, because he was angry dammit, just fucking angry and he was not about to cry. "— we have to be on a break indefinitely, until he's better."

Silence.

"And I confronted him about what he told us, about Janice and Roy."

Silence.

"Hello-o-o?"

"Why the fuck did you do that, Zeke?"

"Because almost the second after you were gone he started coming on to me, Sasha. I thought he was more...I thought he could be reasonable, that he was going to amaze me with how together he can be but it turns out he's just been hanging on by the skin of his teeth. If we went to Los Angeles at some point he'd be having a complete meltdown when he found out we weren't going just pick up where we left off."

"And this is news to you?"

"Yeah, okay, I'm an idiot. I believed what I wanted to believe...I thought that something had actually changed."

"Some things have changed, Zeke."

"Not very much. We went to the Jam just before that and — "

"You went to The Jam? The Jam, Zeke? What the fuck is the matter with you?"

"I asked him if it was okay and he insisted, Sasha, he almost ripped my fucking head off when I suggested that we could go somewhere else! And then when we got there he promptly flipped out — so maybe it took me a few extra hours to figure out that I can't count on him to keep it together for me but I did figure it out eventually, okay?"

"Zeke...why are you so mad?"

The question almost undid him. He very nearly blurted out the news about Thomas — but he didn't think he could do that and manage not to cry. And there was a more terrible realization, a dreadful certainty that Sasha had known about Thomas, and if Zeke mentioned it he would have it confirmed that Sasha had been an accomplice in this as well as Casey's other lies. That was something that he couldn't bear to know, not today.

He made himself speak while forcing down bile. "Just — I'm frustrated, I guess. I want things to be different...I admit it, I felt like I couldn't let things go on the same anymore and I just started talking. I've had it, Sasha, I wanted to push the envelope so something could really change. It needed to be done."

"Maybe," Sasha breathed, "but you couldn't have waited a few days?"

"What for?"

"Well, gee, let me think...how about so I could be there too? Hell, you could have done it yesterday or this morning even, but you were the one who convinced me it wasn't the right time! It almost seems like...I wonder if you deliberately waited until I was gone."

"That is not fucking true, Sasha."

There was a pause. Zeke heard Sasha breathing deeply, containing himself.

"All right," Sasha said then. "I guess things just get blurted out sometimes."

"You've got your wish now at least, Sasha. Casey's coming home."

"And...how is he?"

It was a question that Zeke did not want to turn his mind to — but he had no choice. "I'm not sure. I did tell him several times that it's not over but of course he only hears the parts he wants to."

"Shit, Zeke."

"He should have been able to handle it, with everything he's handled already..."

"Yeah, but who knows what kind of fantasies he's been spinning to get through this month...and what about the other part, about Janice? How did he respond to that?"

Zeke steeled himself against remembering the details; he did not want to start feeling any empathy for Casey right now, if he did he would be lost. "He fought me on it but eventually he just kind of...gave up."

"Oh, fuck..."

"I did get him to basically agree that it happened. I got him to talk about it."

Sasha's breathing was coming across the lines as a lot louder than it should have been; otherwise, he was far too quiet..

"It had to be done, Sasha. It's like he's trained us both not to ask any questions...remember how he freaked on you that time? So you let it go and I let it go but this time was different. I think he wanted us to bring it up, that was why he told us in the first place."

"But you know damn well that he probably didn't remember that he had told us. He was drugged out of his tree." Sasha paused, sighed, then said, "I'm not saying I disagree with the reasons for doing it. I'm just afraid it's too much, all at once."

A shudder moved through Zeke, and as much as he did recognize doubt when it shook him, he determinedly crammed it down. Yves had told him there was a fine line between helping and enabling — and he had been enabling Casey all this time, he was sure of it. To really help, it seemed, required being willing to say things that would cause terrible pain. Everything else he had been doing, all that patient comfort and tolerance...that was no better than slapping a band-aid over an infection and ignoring it.

"I have to go," Zeke said.

"All right...be sure to keep a really close eye on him."

"Obviously."

"Okay, then. You will call us from Los Angeles?"

Zeke hesitated.

"Yeah," he whispered, not sure if it was true.

After hanging up he finished his cold latte, took the car to get it gassed up and then went back to the Connors'. By this time Allison was home, and was in the middle of cooking something that Zeke recognized, by the aroma, as carbonara á la Connor. Frank was in the kitchen with her, carrying on some sort of whispered conversation. Zeke attempted to pass by the kitchen with just a nod, hoping he might just get away with going on upstairs for some alone time—

"Zeke," Allison called to him.

No such luck.

He joined them near the stove, taking up the pose of watching Allison stir the frying bacon. It smelled delicious, too, but Zeke didn't know if he'd be able to swallow food tonight. Allison glanced up from her pan and said casually, "We were just talking to Casey."

"Uh-huh."

"He's really upset." Allison stopped stirring so she could give Zeke her full attention. "He's...like he was in July and I don't understand how..." She paused to contain emotion. "He said you broke up."

"No," Zeke snapped, wanting to pound on something. "We didn't break up. It's complicated but that's not what I said."

"Then I just...don't..." Allison shook her head. "I don't know what we can do."

He really would have liked to just leave it at that, but taking a second and a third look, he recognized two parents in complete obfuscation. They had just witnessed a Casey who had been drastically transformed from mere hours ago and they were desperate to comprehend it. To be fair, they had probably been trying all along to do that yet they were crippled by a lack of information. Their knowledge of their son was a mere fraction of Zeke's and he made a decision on the spot to offer them something — because, for once, he could empathize. It must be terrible being Casey's parents sometimes.

"I'm kind of giving away confidences here," Zeke began.

He was right. From the way that postures straightened and eyes sharpened, they would sop up even the slightest insight into their child.

"Casey's got a problem where he overreacts and misinterprets things...things having to do with his relationships...to the point that he fantasizes things that aren't true." That had to be one of the nicer ways to say that their son was sometimes on the brink of psychosis. "I did not tell him I want to break up, I told him I definitely did not want to break up but there are certain rules and restrictions on how we can be together — " He felt his face getting hot and imagined he was as red as they were getting right now.

"What's this problem called?" Frank asked.

"You know...to be honest, he doesn't actually tell me a lot of what he talks about with his shrink. I'm going by what I've seen and what Spadoni told me. Spadoni used the word 'borderline' but I don't know what Yves has said. I just know what I see." He combed his memory banks for the conversation he'd had with Dr. Spadoni months ago. "This thing...it has to do with being afraid of being alone...being abandoned."

Unintentionally, he'd struck the Connors deeply. He knew it the moment the word "abandoned" left his lips.

"How...how did he get this way?" Frank Connor asked.

Tell us this isn't our fault.

Zeke cleared his throat. "It's a combination of things, from what I understand."

"But I thought this was more to do with that Roy."

"That's definitely a part of it. I can tell you that Roy was...not very consistent with his attention and when he did pay attention to Casey, he wasn't always nice." Zeke stopped there; he felt that he'd already revealed more than he should have. "Look, I want you to know that whatever Casey tells you...I haven't ditched him or dumped him. I'm going to Los Angeles but I'm coming back." He closed his eyes for a few seconds to collect himself, finished, "I'm sorry I can't say more. I just wanted you to know that — that — he's never going to be alone as long as I have anything to say about it."

Allison sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. She said solemnly, "Thank you, Zeke, for telling us that."

"He's going to be okay, then," Frank said, not quite asking a question.

Zeke mustered an optimistic tone and replied, "He is getting better, Mr. Connor. He's unhappy with me right now but we'll get past it. That's how it goes. He gets mad, he gets depressed, then he's tired of himself and he finds some way to end it...it's two steps forward, one step back."

They both nodded, happy to hear a familiar tune.

Zeke needed to change the subject to something more innocuous. "I...take it dinner is almost done?"

"Yes," Allison said brightly. "Carbonara. Maybe you could...go up and tell him that it's almost ready?"

It was a blatant attempt to induce peace-making. Zeke conceded with a nod and went upstairs to what had been Casey's and Sasha's room. There was no one in it, and he realized that Casey must have gone without a second thought into the room that Zeke had slept in last night, into his old bedroom. It stoked Zeke's anger anew — just another demonstration of Casey's self-absorbed, all-consuming misery.

He went to that other room and knocked. Not surprisingly, there was no answer. He waited a few seconds before going in.

There was a wintry, sloped, late-afternoon sunshine in the room and a Casey-lump in the bed, its back to the door. Zeke found the computer chair that he remembered having sat in once before and wheeled it closer to the bed. He decided to wait and see if Casey wanted to stir out of his funk without prodding, but after a solid length of silence Zeke took it upon himself to start the conversation. As usual.

"Casey," he began.

"I suppose you want me to move."

"Ex-excuse me?"

"Back to the other room. I didn't think when I came up here."

"No, it's fine. You can stay here." Zeke considered the window and the grainy light entering the room through it. "I booked you and your father on a flight from Cincinnati...tomorrow at two-thirty five."

No sound from the lump on the bed.

"So you'll be home tomorrow."

Nothing.

"Casey...do you think you could grunt or something so I know that you're listening?"

"I heard you."

"Thank you. I already called Sasha to let him know you're coming home." Zeke stood up, propelled by a need to get out of this room, and the motion rolled the computer chair back a few feet. "Your mom's attempted carbonara again."

"I'm not hungry."

The tone made Zeke want to tear off the blankets and rip Casey from the bed. "Neither am I but I'm going to show up and be considerate. Do you think you can do that much?"

Yet another silence fell. Zeke had to resist the desire to do something unkind and not in the least helpful — and he jumped as a strong knock sounded on the door. A moment later Allison walked in, smiling in her tentative way. "Hi, boys."

"Hey, come on in, it's a party," Casey said in the same monotone as before.

Allison looked more uneasy than hurt. "Dinner's ready, hon."

Casey muttered something.

"What?" his mother crooned. "Did you say something, Casey?"

Still keeping his back to them, Casey lifted his head off the pillow and spoke clearly: "I don't like carbonara."

"You what?" Zeke blurted.

"Pasta carbonara...I don't like it."

"You never mentioned that before," Zeke fumed. It was actually un-fucking- believable. He wondered if Casey had ever spoken a word of truth to anyone — and he had not missed the way that Casey's mother was pursing her lips, perhaps near tears.

"It's okay, hon," she said. "I'll make something else for you."

"No, he'll eat it," Zeke growled.

"He doesn't have to eat it," Allison reprimanded, with a glare at Zeke.

Unexpectedly, Casey forced himself upright, throwing off the covers and facing the two of them. "I don't mind it, Mom, really. It's okay." In the rapidly diminishing light he was a greyish colour, his reddened eyes sparking with an unhealthy glitter. "It's more that I have to tell Sasha...it's just not my favourite."

"Oh," Allison said. "Are you sure, because I don't mind..."

"No, really, Mom...It's okay." Casey got his feet onto the floor, pushing himself upright. "I'm coming down now."

Trying to eat dinner with Casey and his parents was agony, though. Casey was an absolute non-participant, poking at his food and occasionally gifting Zeke a glimpse of some fervid, private message with a shift of his head and some minute vertical exercise with his eyelids. Meanwhile his mother fretted and his father looked crushed by disappointment. Zeke tried to make conversation, something that he knew was completely out of character for him but in this instance felt like an emotional necessity.

Towards the end, they got onto the subject of the next day's itinerary. "Casey, your mother is going to drive us all to Cincinnati tomorrow," Frank began.

Casey shrugged or nodded or made some other non-committal gesture that started Zeke's blood boiling. Everyone in the room was trying except Casey, who must have given himself a permanent Hey, look-at-me-I'm-a-mental-patient exemption.

Appearing increasingly disheartened, Frank soldiered on with, "I thought we should get on the road by seven. That way we'll have enough time for lunch and we can still check in reasonably early."

Miraculously, Casey spoke. "Okay," he agreed.

"Casey, hon...aren't you hungry at all?" his mother pleaded.

Casey glanced at Zeke yet again, and this time it seemed to be with a certain amount of shame. "Yeah," he said, and over the next half-hour succeeded in making a bit of a dent in the food on his plate.

When this ordeal was over, Casey went back to his room without a word. Zeke excused himself shortly after and went up to the room to which he had been assigned by default — which was still strewn with Casey's things. He waited until he heard Casey go to the bathroom, then went next door and retrieved his own belongings. Not wanting to be faced with the project at five in the morning, he spent some time trying to fit everything back into his luggage. He had expected it all to shrink after his hockey bag full of gifts was delivered, but somehow he had exactly the same volume of stuff. One of these new items was the CD that Casey had given him, that he hadn't yet listened to. He stared at the black, uninformative cover for a while and almost tossed it in the garbage. At the last moment he threw it in his suitcase and buried it with socks and t-shirts.

Once everything was packed and the alarm set, he read for a while and then got settled in bed even though it was still only ten o'clock. He had it in mind that once he was well hidden in the darkness, he was going to allow himself to cry — but, typically for him, once all the conditions were optimal for a discharge of tears he no longer felt like it.

 

Somewhere on the other side of the wall, Zeke was sleeping, weary from his labours of the day. Huddled in the single bed that he'd slept in for years, Casey was awake and still wearing all of his clothing from that day; he'd been too cold to undress and too miserable to care after that terrible time sitting at the dinner table with his parents and Zeke. Hours had passed since then, hours with him just clenched up in his bed, and he was still freakishly cold. He couldn't feel his body. All his senses knew were Zeke's words from before. They were a non-stop torrent roaring in his head: It has to stop...indefinitely...indefinitely...indefinite break...indefinite as in without end, ending without end...forever and ever without end amen...you had sex with him did he make you and then what how did it happen what did she do it wasn't beautiful, Casey, it wasn't beautiful it was two ratfucks it wasn't beautiful —

What he had been expecting...this wasn't exactly like before. Before had been awful enough; for days he had lain in his bed feeling dead as he remembered Roy's words, wondering how feeling nothing could be so painful. Now was a hurt as bright as his branding with the iron, except he would have gladly felt the iron again in lieu of this. It was relentless, and by now he should have been hyperventilating, running to Zeke to beg for a Xanax, to beg for something...or failing that he should have been disappearing before it got too bad. But there was no fog to rescue him this time. He'd even tried to induce an episode, make the fog come and take him away...but it didn't come. There was no zoning, no panic attack even though he was fucking scared beyond belief, and there was no escape.

Of course his parents were anxious to comfort him. They kept coming at him, trying to figure out a way to be useful. The first time it had been just his dad, shortly after he and Zeke arrived back from the Brunch of Doom, tentatively sticking his head in the room.

"Casey...hey, pal, you...um...okay?"

"What?" he had snapped. He had been rolled up in his blankets facing the window. His head had been splitting, his stomach roiling even though it was empty. The first thing he had done when he came upstairs earlier was to go in the bathroom and sit on the edge of the bathtub, waiting for nausea to overcome him again. After a few minutes it had become apparent that it wasn't going to happen. He had splashed some water on his face and rinsed his mouth then, before taking himself to his bed.

"I thought...maybe you could tell me what's wrong?"

"I can't."

"Why not?"

The man just hadn't gone away and Casey had retorted, hoping it would do the trick, "Because...you don't really want to know."

A stilted pause had recognized the truth of the statement. Casey expected that to be the end of it but then his father had returned, "Maybe I'm not entirely comfortable with all the details but I do want to know what's bothering you."

And Casey had very nearly said what he thought: It's too late for that, Dad. You could have asked five months ago, or five years ago, but you didn't, so excuse me if I don't have the will to help you feel better right now.

But he hadn't said it, and his father had remained determined to get the goods on Zeke.

"So what did that punk do to you?"

"Nothing."

"Don't lie, Casey. He did something."

Casey had rolled over onto his back to face his father and replied, making no effort to be anything but cryptic, "I lie, he tells the truth."

There, that had done it; his father shook his head, visibly giving up. "Well, if you feel like telling me later...anyway, I thought you should know that I'm going with you to Seattle."

It had been a shock. Casey had been expecting to hear a plea for him stay in Herrington and instead — "You don't have to," Casey had whispered.

"I'm going...end of discussion."

It turned out that Zeke and his father had a lot in common.

Later, his mother had gotten home from work and Casey heard them carrying out one of their low-voiced, parental conversations downstairs before their footsteps sounded together, climbing up together to deal with their disturbed and disturbing son.

His mom: "Casey...there must be something we can do to help."

His dad: "Just tell us what happened."

"We broke up," Casey had finally said, just to try to shut them up.

His mom sounded startled. "You broke up?"

"Not according to him. We're still together, we just aren't together..." His voice had been bleak but strangely steady; he couldn't believe the sound of himself. "He says he's not going anywhere...but he's already gone."

"And...that's it."

"Yeah, that's it."

It was quiet for a time.

"See, you don't want to hear it," Casey had said. "You don't want to know about your son being crazy — and gay, and — and falling apart because some guy — dumped him."

"Just hold on for a second." His dad had boldly sat down and put a hand on his knee. Casey tried to twitch it off but the hand was not removed. "I'm not thinking that. What I'm thinking is why is my son...why does he take certain things so hard — not that you shouldn't be sad, but why...?"

The fumbling and tripping of his father had amounted to a basic question...Why are you like this, Casey...and even though Frank Connor would never be good at this, never really comfortable talking about these matters, Casey comprehended that he had a responsibility to his father. To both of his parents. There would always be a limit to what they could know about him — and yet they did care. He knew that, and he was conscious of wanting to make it okay so that whatever happened next they'd be able to believe that they had done their best.

Casey had forced himself to sit upright, to address them with his full attention, or at least the best that he could provide at the moment. "I'm sorry, Dad...sorry, Mom."

"Sorry?" his mom had echoed.

"That you can't fix me." Someone started to speak but Casey had overridden it with, "I have two doctors who can't fix me, Sasha can't fix me and I can't even fix me...so don't think it's you, please."

There had been a long silence, and then his mom had said, "It's not about fixing, it's about not wanting to see you like this...so hurt." She had settled on the bed along with his dad, her eyes big and sad and teary. She'd been near crying as she spoke. "If you ever get to be a parent...you'll understand where we're coming from."

This was one of those rare times that Casey saw his mother in tears and was not affected by it. Regret was still the strongest emotion he could find for her — regret that she had to feel bad about him. He hadn't wanted that. No doubt they had been looking down at him, seeing him frosty-eyed and desolate and feeling like they had failed. He had been able to watch it happen — the confusion and worry in them gradually transforming into outright guilt and distress. And he'd had nothing more to offer so he had just waited for them to leave. Finally, they had.

Hours later in a darkened, quiet house, sleep came to Casey at last — but still there was no rescue. As an escape route his sleep had been compromised; he tossed and trembled, the dark filled with jumbled, confusing flashes of dream matter.

He woke a while later, sweating under the covers. The clock informed him he'd slept an inadequate number of hours and although it was still an hour before he was supposed to be awake, he'd had all that he could take of this bed. He got up and padded silently to the bathroom to have a shower.

In a bathroom that he had known all his life, the light from the fixtures above was brittle and strange, the walls too close. He wondered, not much interested in the answer, if he really was dead, if he had been haunting his life — but of course he was not, he had already eaten and digested a meal, carried on some conversation, slept. Everything carrying on, more or less. He had been betrayed yet again by his body.

"...so filthy...fucking filthy piece of shit..."

He turned on the shower as hot as he could make it without scalding himself, then got undressed. As he was doing so, he caught his image in the mirror. He looked away quickly, but not before he had a glimpse of himself. Suddenly, smashing the mirror didn't strike him as nearly so excessive as it had yesterday. It felt like a good idea. He liked the idea of the noise, the blood, the people running to see what was wrong and having to confront the fact that he wanted to hurt himself. See, he would be saying, this is how bad and crazy I can get. Make sense of it or not, I don't care.

He was standing in the middle of the bathroom naked, too cold even to shiver now. Crawling into the shower, he just stood there under the near-scalding water for a length of time, until his skin turned a deep, patchy red but not nearly deep enough to be satisfying.

That thought got him trembling and made haste to stop the water and get out. He dried himself, then went back to his room — whereupon he realized that all of his things were in the other bedroom where Zeke was, so he was forced to put back on the same clothes that he had been wearing, underwear and all. It felt far more disgusting than he would have expected. He sat on his bed, pulled up his knees and laid his head against them.

When he heard Zeke moving around he checked the time; it was six o'clock, which meant that he'd actually managed to vacate his mind for about a half an hour. He listened to Zeke going down the hall to the bathroom...then to Zeke taking a quick, five-minute shower...the water running as Zeke shaved and brushed his teeth...

Next, Zeke's soft footsteps were coming back down the hallway, and Casey cursed to himself for having been so enraptured by the sounds of Zeke that he had missed the opportunity to go collect his belongings. He got up and made his bed neatly, then stole next door, peering through the half-open door into the guest room. Wearing the new sweater that Jerry had given him for his birthday, Zeke was rummaging in one of his bags. When he turned and spotted Casey, he started loudly. "Fuck! Casey...!"

"Sorry," Casey whispered.

"What — what do you want?"

"My stuff is in here."

Zeke made a point of glancing around the room, although he had to have noticed it already. "Oh," he said. "Just give me a second and I'll be out of your way."

Not five minutes later he had vacated the room, lugging his bags down to the main floor of the house. Casey felt tears scratching at the back of his throat as he witnessed Zeke's intent, calm expression and the way his resolved, cold back descended the stairs, making it glaringly obvious how Casey was nothing more than a challenge to Zeke's trademark cool and stoicism.

Casey hurriedly shed his unclean layers for fresh ones, throwing the rest of his clothing and his other belongings in the suitcase; if he had made some sort of attempt at order he probably wouldn't have had to fight to get it closed — but fuck it. He stuffed the Orson Welles movies, the digital camera — plus his journal, discovered under the bed — into his backpack. It then occurred to him that Dr. Yves would probably want to know what he was feeling at this point. Despite the fact that it didn't fucking matter much anymore, he dug the journal back out and plunked himself down on the bed. He didn't bother with a date.

It's over.

Forcing the rest of what was within him into the shapes of recognizable words and pushing them through his fingers seemed almost impossible. He closed his eyes, gripping his pen and gathered his energies for a while before resuming.

He's going to Los Angeles. He said he didn't want me with him. He made me talk about that thing with Roy and Janice and it felt just like it was happening again. I would have said anything to stop it. I did say anything to s.

He couldn't write that. He was done. He wrote one more thing, just one word — Sasha— then tossed the journal aside.

There really was only one reason that Casey was eager to get on that flight back to Seattle — Sasha was at the other end of it. Not that Sasha could really help but he at least would hold Casey. But would he really want another person in his bed on a permanent basis, a person who wasn't his boyfriend? It was one thing to do it for a couple of weeks or even a month and another to just accept it as the norm. There was the couch but clearly the apartment wasn't intended for three separate, unattached individuals. Surely then, Zeke would expect him to move out. One didn't cohabit with an ex-boyfriend, it was just not comfortable...and since he would be moving out, it didn't make a lot of sense for him to be in Seattle. He'd talked about returning to school — the very memory of it was laughable, even if it was just one course. He would be wasting his dad's money, wasting everyone's time.

Choking on a sob, Casey hugged himself and whispered, "Can't..." God, he hated the sound of his own voice. He hated his words, the way he wrote, the stupid book...he hated his own thoughts. He hated everything except the lingering memory of disappearing, subsiding within a perfect, pure silence.

Gradually, he became aware that his parents were up, and he was grateful for that because his dad's agenda suddenly kicked in. From then on, everyone in the house was occupied with the details of getting organized and getting a quick breakfast — not that Casey was interested in eating. There was a burning weight in his stomach that foreclosed on the possibility of food, and since Zeke was ignoring him and his parents were preoccupied, for once there was no one to nag him.

There was a brief debate between Casey's parents as to which vehicle they should take, but the Jeep easily emerged victorious. All the luggage went into the back of it and then they were on the road, only a few minutes over-schedule.

Casey didn't know how to face a three hour plus drive to Cincinnati with Zeke beside him, but mercifully, his exhaustion bailed him out. Half an hour down the road, he fell asleep with his head pressed against the window frame, pillowed on his balled up scarf. It wasn't a good sleep but he clung to it, forcing consciousness back every time he heard a noise or became aware enough to appreciate the throbbing in his head or the ache in his back.

At length, the Jeep came to a full stop and he was forced to open his eyes. He saw that they were at a travel oasis with a gas station, restaurant, and convenience store, and only a few feet away from him, Zeke was engaged in a mute examination of his face.

Casey couldn't face him — and anyway, he had been specifically asked by Zeke not to stare or otherwise challenge him so he straightened and stretched, looking anywhere else, and notice then that both his parents were absent from the front seat. "What's going on?" he asked, hoping to be told that they were only minutes away from Cincinnati.

"Your mom's making a pit stop...your dad's getting some coffee." Zeke seemed to have no intention of breaking focus and Casey's skin got hot. He felt like he was being ground down in his seat. His parents would return and find nothing left of him but a little bit of dust. Zeke added, "He didn't know if you wanted anything."

Upon reflection, Casey realized he was both thirsty and hungry. He escaped from Zeke's fixed stare, scurrying across the icy parking lot to the store. Taking a bit of a roundabout route to avoid the several strangers inside, he located his father at the coffee dispenser. "Hi, pal," his dad said. "You were right out of it there."

"Mmm." Casey hunted around for a clock. "Um...how far...?"

"How long 'til we get there?" his dad said with a bit of a grin.

Casey produced what he assumed to be a facsimile of a smile.

"About an hour," his dad supplied. "Do you want something? You didn't have any breakfast."

Already exhausted by this conversation, Casey nodded and picked out a plastic-wrapped pastry of some kind. Since he didn't feel optimistic about the tea options in a truck stop, he also chose a small milk. He joined his father at the cash register, and that was when he noticed that he didn't have the usual skin-crawling, nerve-jangling jumpiness that he had come to expect when standing at a counter with people behind him. He realized that he didn't much care if everyone in the store was an alien, as long as they didn't actually try to touch him, and why would they? They were too busy looking at chocolate covered potato chips, licorice and twinkies, and he was nothing that they would want.

Disinterested, he stood there as his father paid for their purchases, then joined him to head back to their vehicle. As he crossed under the canopy where the gas pumps were lined up, staring down at the gasoline-pocked cement, a hand abruptly clapped down on his shoulder.

"Christ..."

It was his father's hand, and he had just about walked in front of another vehicle; his father's grip held him in place despite his involuntary reaction, while the truck in question, which had been moving quite slowly in that enclosed area, ground to a halt.

"Pay attention to where you're going, Casey." His dad instructed him to walk forward with a push from that same hand.

Casey's mom was waiting on the passenger side of the Jeep. Slipping into the driver's seat, Casey's dad delivered a coffee to her. As his dad eased out of the parking lot, Casey started to pick apart his stale pastry, eating it in chunks while making every effort not to turn his eyes in Zeke's direction. He stared out the window, letting it seem that he was fascinated by the countryside. A few more minutes down the road, they encountered a long stretch of highway repair and the hour to the airport became almost two — a fact which would certainly vindicate his father's neuroses. If nothing else, the delay provided for lush conversation between his mom and dad, which alleviated the painful silence in the Jeep. Zeke even commented a few times.

Once they reached the Greater Cincinnati area it was after eleven; Casey's dad insisted on going directly to the airport and eating lunch around that area. They wound up going to the same deli that Sasha, Casey and his father had eaten at when he flew in a couple of weeks ago.

During that lunch Casey came to be grateful for his father's presence; Frank Connor maintained a constant stream of criticism about everything — the food, the people he saw, the buildings, the frequent thunder of planes passing overhead. His father, Casey realized, did not like cities — and the positive upshot of that dislike was that Casey never once had to speak, nor was Zeke required to speak to him.

Parking at the airport took longer than it should have too, but finally they had checked their bags and entered the concourse full of shops and restaurants that would ultimately take them to their respective departure gates. With just over two hours before his flight left, Casey suddenly had the gift of time, and he didn't want it.

"So," his mom said. "Now that we have two hours to kill..." and she tossed a glare at his dad... "Maybe we can just sit down and relax with a coffee...or tea, whatever."

"It's too damned expensive here," Casey's father complained.

"Yeah, it is," his mother agreed. "But we're here now and I want a coffee."

His father's brows drew together, gathering for debate.

"Um," Zeke said. "I think maybe...I'll just go wait at my gate. I didn't sleep much last night and I'm...I'd probably be poor company anyway."

"Well," Casey's mom replied and looked flustered. "Okay, I guess..."

"I'd like to talk to Casey for a second though."

"Oh...right."

"Before I do..." Zeke rummaged in his carry-on and retrieved the bottle of Xanax with its four, tiny white jewels. He handed it to Casey's dad. "These are Casey's...but only give him one if he needs it...and you should give them to Sasha when you get to Seattle."

"Oh," Casey's dad said, sounding moderately panicked. He began examining the bottle minutely, perhaps looking for clues as to its use. "'Take one as needed for panic or anxiety.' How do I know...?"

"You'll know," Zeke said only. He shifted his weight and addressed Casey's mom. "Thank you for having me for the holidays."

"You're welcome, Zeke," Casey's mom said. She dithered a little bit, then stretched up to give him a peck on the cheek. "Anytime."

"Yeah," Casey's dad chimed in.

Zeke glanced over at him with some surprise, and was ambushed by Frank Connor making his best attempt at a good-bye hug. It was just about the most painful thing that Casey had ever seen — a cursory embrace, postures on both sides suggesting how one might clasp a cactus to their breast, and a couple of manly backslaps.

When it was over Casey's parents made their retreat and Casey was left alone with Zeke, standing in the middle of the airport food court with a Krispy Kreme on one side and a McDonald's on the other. Casey's sole objective in this conversation was to remain on his feet and not crumple, to have his eyes open more often than closed, and to not succumb to the urge to start keening...to not have Zeke any more disgusted with him than he already was.

"I'm sorry," Zeke said, gazing over the top of Casey's head, "but I can't sit and listen to the world according to Frank for two more hours."

Casey thought he might have nodded — or maybe he shrugged, he couldn't really tell because he couldn't feel his body.

"I'm really...impressed..." Zeke faltered, then cleared his throat and went on. "...by how well you're handling things, Casey."

I am not here, Casey told himself. I do not exist.

"I'm not saying it isn't hard, but you've been acting...pretty together. I think you're going to be okay."

I do not exist...I do not I do not...

"Casey...I need to know that you're hearing me now. I am going to be back home in a week, and I'm sure that by then I'll be able to sit down with you and...and figure out where to go next. Right now this is all I can offer...understand?"

This isn't me. I am not here.

"Casey, I can't get on that plane unless I know that you've heard me...and I am going to get on that plane, so just tell me...tell me what you heard."

"You're going to be home in a week," Casey mumbled.

"Yes."

"And you won't be as mad."

Zeke hesitated. "Yes," he said.

Despite his earlier aspirations towards a minimum display of dignity, Casey's eyes had long since been on Zeke's shoes. "And you won't...hate me."

"Casey..." His chin was tipped up suddenly by one of Zeke's fingers. "I'll never hate you." The touch closed around his face as Zeke found Casey's eyes, his fingers almost seeking to caress — but then dropping his hands, Zeke hefted his carry-on and choked, "I've got to go."

He turned and moved away at a steady pace, neither walking nor running, but definitely moving at a resolute clip.

I do not exist...I do not I do not...I am not here...

Zeke's back was receding in Casey's vision. It was almost gone, obscured by other shapes blocking and passing in front of it.

I am not...here...

Zeke was gone.

"I'm not here," Casey whispered.

That was just another lie, though. He was here. He wasn't disappearing, he was here — with a body quivering as though it had just been struck, emptiness spreading to every corner of him while treacherous drugs coursed through his veins making it so that he could feel every fucking second of it.

 

Finally, Casey could see the end of The Travel Day That Would Not Die — and he was so very ready for it. All he could think, all he could handle was wanting to be home, wanting Sasha. He was no longer up for anything that didn't fulfill those wants or otherwise relate to them.

His head ached and his eyes burned with fatigue as he and his father passed through their arrival gate in Seattle; he saw Jerry standing about twenty feet away, eyes searching the stream of people exiting the plane. Jerry caught sight of Casey and waved, smiling. "I thought..." Casey muttered. He glanced over at his dad, knowing that it was very likely none of Frank Connor's doing that Sasha was not there but still needing someone to blame.

He had not been easy on his father during the past four hours. In the airport he had sat brooding while his parents had tried desperately to keep their game faces from slipping off and he had wished they would just give it up and let him own his despondent self. They hadn't, and they hadn't let him go anywhere alone either. His father had even followed him to the washrooms at one point, enduring the necessary embarrassment with surprising aplomb. Casey had been permitted five minutes of solitude before his father demanded his reappearance and he forced himself to move, to unlatch the door. It wasn't that he had been particularly afraid of the aliens outside that stall; the world was full of aliens, after all, and he had crammed himself on that toilet seat with his head against his knees so he could recreate the void for just a little while. He didn't think it had worked but it was still a lot more tranquil there than it was on the other side of those metal walls. But all too soon he had been summoned and it was more of the painful conversation with his parents until finally it had been time for them to go through security.

"You know I would come with you too if I could," Casey's mother had said just before they parted.

"I know."

"There's just no other way to manage it..."

"It's okay," he'd assured her.

"Well...take care of yourself, hon." She had kissed him on the forehead and hugged him, sniffling a little. "I'll see you in a month."

"Yeah."

Her smile had wavered slightly. She toyed with his hair. "I love you."

"Love you too, Mom."

Finally, she had let him go and turned to Casey's father. "Frank...make sure you call."

"Of course."

There had been that awkward pause that told Casey his parents were about to show affection to each other in public. He had averted his eyes as they kissed.

"See you in a few days," his father had said to her by way of farewell.

On the plane, Casey had sat with his face to the window and more or less ignored him even though the flight had been a bit bumpy and more than a few times he heard his dad emit an anxious grunt or attempt to engage him in conversation. Casey would reply with a few monotone syllables, if at all.

"Did you say something?" his father prodded him now.

"Where's Sasha?"

"Sasha's working...didn't Zeke tell you?"

"No," Casey said and left it that. He should have known; Sasha had to make a living, after all. Casey headed in Jerry's direction, ignoring the people on either side of him and trusting that his father would follow without demanding too much explanation.

"Hi, Casey!" Jerry greeted him as they got within range. "Welcome back."

"Thanks," Casey said, making no attempt to sound like he meant it.

Jerry's smile faltered at his tone; his eyes travelled to Casey's companion. "Hi, you must be Mr. Connor?"

"Frank." Casey's father stuck out his hand. It occurred to Casey that Jerry and his father would probably hit it off; they were both fairly guy-like, and he needed them to bond because he didn't have the fortitude to play host to any degree.

"Good to meet you, I'm Jerry. Um...let's get your bags so we can get home, okay?"

"Sounds great to me," Casey's father said.

None of them did much talking while waiting for their luggage and getting it out to the car. As exhausted as Casey was, he did notice that his father seemed fairly weary too; there was a heavy beard shadow, and another darkness beneath his eyes. He had all his attention on that opening in the wall where the luggage tumbled through, and the moment that he spotted his, he waded through the crowd for it.

Casey's bags showed up not a minute later, and he did not resist when Jerry wordlessly went to retrieve them. He let Jerry carry his suitcases for him, feeling that it was enough of an accomplishment to walk the endless miles to where the Mustang was parked. It was the most welcoming thing Casey had seen all day; he slumped into the secure, friendly backseat of Zeke's car and tried not to pitch over unconscious.

"So, Jerry," Casey's father said when they were minutes away from the airport...still an eternity away from home. "You're a friend of Sasha's?"

Jerry cleared his throat. "Very good friend."

"I see. And, um...what do you do?"

"I'm a waiter — at Sojourn?"

"Oh, right...so that's where you met."

There had been a time when Casey would have been astounded by this comment from his father. Now he felt nothing but a mild flutter of interest. Casey massaged his eyes, including the bridge of his nose and his forehead and, glancing up, saw Jerry watching him in the rearview mirror. He shifted to the other side of the car where he wouldn't be so visible. The sun was just going down, and he pleaded for it to go down faster, to drape him in shadow.

"I heard the news," Jerry announced suddenly.

"Huh?" Casey echoed.

"You and Zeke...cooking dinner for us."

"Oh...right."

"Any thoughts on what the menu will be?"

"Um...what?"

"What are you and Zeke going to cook?"

"I don't know," Casey said harshly.

"Hey, no rush. You know me, I just love talking food. Actually, we had a really good dinner last night — I'm afraid I haven't put the dishes away yet, sorry."

It seemed to Casey that Jerry was a lot more of a chatterbox than he remembered — but he supposed someone had to pick up the conversational slack, if they cared about such things. He rubbed his eyes again and said, "‘s okay."

"Hey, Sasha told me he got you an interesting cookbook."

As of this moment, Casey couldn't bring himself to respond, even to be polite. He stared out his window and imagined that he was mute...or maybe deaf and mute, like the girl in Children of a Lesser God. He would live inside an ocean of silence and no one would dare tell him it was wrong.

"Sorry," he heard from his father.

And he heard Jerry expel a long breath. "It's okay...We'll be there soon."

Indeed, within fifteen minutes they had pulled into the alleyway parking behind the apartment. Not waiting for the others, Casey collected himself and his luggage and headed for the stairs. By the time the others got up there, Casey had the door unlocked and they shuffled in behind him.

The apartment had a particular, older-building smell that he hadn't quite noticed before. Above that scent there was the aroma of Sasha's cooking...garlic and pork, overlaid with chocolate. The clean dishes were piled neatly on the rack and overflowing slightly onto the counter. Jerry said, in behind Casey, "Sorry about the dishes man. It was just a little welcome back dinner."

"Doesn't matter," Casey said. He kicked off his boots, placed them neatly in the boot-tray and hung up his coat, just the way Sasha would want; Casey's father more or less followed suit. Jerry had been wearing only running shoes and a light jacket; he shed them quickly and went into the kitchen, where he began putting the dishes away.

"So, um," Jerry said, keeping his eyes determinedly on his task, "Sasha asked me to hang out here until he gets home."

Casey nodded.

"Hope you don't mind."

"If I did, would it make a difference?"

Jerry shot him an injured look.

"Sorry, " Casey apologized. "I'm just tired. I don't actually mind. I'm going to go unpack, okay?"

"Sure...feel free to ignore me."

Casey had every intention of doing just that. He dragged his suitcase to his room and unloaded all of the clothes into the closet, starting a new laundry pile. He was going to remove his various toiletries and his pills from his suitcase when he just lost interest; he flopped wrongways across the bed instead and closed his eyes.

He had been thinking to just rest for a moment, so he was seriously disoriented when he started up in the dark, jolted from a heavy sleep to the sight of a Sasha-shaped silhouette backlit in his doorway.

"Oops," Sasha whispered. "I woke you."

"Doesn't matter." Casey felt like he could have slept a year and still not be rested. He pulled himself upright, squinting at Sasha's form and trying to get untangled from his afghan; someone had covered him while he was unconscious. He couldn't think of a way to say please make it better, but fortunately, he didn't have to. Sasha simply came forward and, sitting down on the bed, drew Casey into a gentle embrace. He was redolent with the scents of his work, his routine; finding it comforting, Casey closed his eyes against Sasha's shoulder and inhaled...garlic, onion, grease...Sasha.

"I'm going to take a quick shower," Sasha said, "and then I'll sleep here."

"What about Jerry?" mumbled Casey.

"He's in my bed — and just in case you were wondering, your dad is on the couch."

Casey had no absolutely no warning when he felt tears break and fall from his eyes. He croaked, "I was rude."

"I'm sure they'll forgive you."

"I don't know," he sniffled.

"Poor kitten," Sasha crooned. Casey felt a cool hand against the hot skin of his forehead. "Do you want to tell me about it now?"

Casey shook his head.

"All right. Tomorrow is probably better." Sasha began to move like he was trying to detach himself. "I'll just..."

"Don't go," Casey whispered, and marvelled at the way that he no longer had any inkling of what was going to come out of his mouth or his hands or his head from one instant to the next. He hadn't known that he was going to beg and clutch at Sasha's tunic with both hands anymore than he had known he was going to start snivelling a minute ago.

"I have to, kitten...I stink. I promise it won't be more than ten minutes. Why don't you get out of those clothes?"

It was pathetic, a fully grown human clinging to another person the way he did. He released Sasha and followed instructions, stripping down and putting on fresh clothes; he recalled, before Christmas, that Sasha had been threatening to buy him some actual pajamas. It seemed an eternity ago.

As promised, Sasha was absent only for the absolute minimum, reappearing in the bedroom dewy and fully fragrant, with damp hair. Once dressed in his own sleepwear, Sasha got into bed and let Casey press up close, the two of them twining together with a complete absence of sexual intent.

"Are you going to sleep now?" Sasha asked, stroking his hair.

"Yes," Casey said, and hoped that it was true.

But oblivion just wouldn't come to him. Because it wasn't punishment enough that he had lost all those more wakeful forms of oblivion that had always been his forte — now he couldn't even fucking sleep. He lay there listening to Sasha's sleep noises until he couldn't bear to hear them anymore and withdrew from Sasha's arms, and the bed.

The living room wasn't an option with his father sleeping in there and the roof was too cold, so he went to the only unoccupied room. Switching on the bathroom light, he stood for several seconds, trying to decide what he wanted to do. For once, he didn't want a shower; he wasn't up to getting undressed, and then getting wet, and getting dry, and getting dressed again. He didn't want to use the toilet. Moreover, he didn't particularly want to stand, nor did he want to sit. He didn't want to think. Or breathe.

God, he didn't want to do this anymore. He was sick to death of himself...just like Zeke was sick to death of him. Sasha, Jerry and his father might not be fed up with him just yet, but they would be very soon. Without Zeke he was an empty, unfillable void.

Unless he found someone else to supply what he needed. Thomas was still at large on the streets of Seattle, not to mention any number of anonymous male creatures out there who might be persuaded to help him...all he had to do was go out and find them and put aside any considerations of safety, of other people's feelings or judgments about him. He would have to accept that everyone he knew would look at him with anger or revulsion. Sasha would brand himself a failure initially but would no doubt eventually join Zeke in an attitude of pure disgust. They would finally acknowledge their mistake in having believed they could help him to be something better. Something worth something. Something...real.

It wasn't a conscious decision to open the medicine cabinet; he just found himself doing it, averting his eyes first to ensure that he didn't see himself in the mirror.

He had been expecting to see his pill bottles — but he had forgotten that he'd left them in his bedroom, still zippered inside his suitcase. In any case, he wasn't sure what would happen if he took all the Paxil and all the Klonopin. It would undoubtedly make him very ill, but there was no guarantee of success. The Klonopin didn't pack the same punch as Xanax and there was no possibility that he had enough of them anyway; he was currently two thirds of the way through a three week prescription. The plan had been for him to see Dr. Chakri next week and evaluate how he was doing with it — and, he appreciated with some rancour, the plan had also been designed to ensure that he didn't have very many pills in his possession. He still had two months worth of Paxil but he didn't know what effect it would have and he only had four Xanax, which he would have to somehow pry away from his father if he wanted to use them. The only other drugs in the medicine cabinet were the almost empty bottle of Tylenol and the box of Theraflu packets.

Then there were the sharp objects. The refill cartridges for Sasha's razor had blades in them, not that he had any notion of how to get the blades out of their plastic sheathes. He supposed that if he was really determined, he could figure it out — but it was far more of a challenge than he really wanted. In fact, this whole business was more challenging than he had thought. He remembered joking once about jumping off his roof, but it was only a two storey building. Chances were good that he'd live, so if he wanted to go that way he'd have to find another building. That struck him as logistically complicated at the moment, along with most other options.

Of course, there was always the mirror itself. All he had to do was submit to his clichéd MTV fantasy...smash that diabolical pane of glass that he so hated and sharp, deadly objects would fall from the sky.

It was then that he noticed how he was shaking so hard that his knees were about to give out. If he really wanted to die, he could...but the problem was, he didn't want to die. He didn't particularly like to bleed, he didn't like pain, and he was afraid.

There was a muttering outside the bathroom door — a conference was being held, and any moment someone was going to override his privacy and open that door, which he had not thought to lock. Hurriedly, he closed the medicine cabinet, catching a terrible glimpse of his face. Cringing from it, he opened the bathroom door to find Sasha, Jerry and his father huddled outside. "I like to be alone when I shit," he said flatly. He walked past them and went into his bedroom.

Sasha murmured something behind him that sounded like he was sending the others back to their respective beds, and followed Casey. Casey was already in bed, pulling up the covers when Sasha closed the door to the room and quietly said, "Do you want to talk now, kitten?"

"No," Casey replied and turned onto his side, tugging the blankets all the way up to his neck.

There was an audible sigh. "In the morning then." The mattress dipped behind Casey.

He made further attempts to sleep. He would lay absolutely still in one position until he knew that he would scream, and then he would shift as unobtrusively as he could into a new position and do the same thing until the next time movement became imperative. It was after the tenth or fifteenth bit of this choreography that Sasha's voice said with weary patience, "Casey."

Casey flopped onto his back. "Sorry."

"It's okay...anything I can do to help?"

Casey thought about it a second. "Will you fuck me?" he asked.

There was a pause while Casey waited for Sasha to throw him out of the bed, and then Sasha replied, "I guess I could do that. Get up on your knees."

He did as he was told, leaning forward onto his elbows, shivering in anticipation.

"Open up for me, baby." A scalding weight lined up along his back as the hard length sank all the way inside him and Sasha kissed the back of his neck and breathed in his ear, licking and nipping at it. "Ah...yes, baby...yes...that's it...that's it...there'll never be anyone like you."

Casey whimpered and buried his face in the bed, hanging on as Sasha's thrusts rocked him forward...hard again...and again.

"Say it to me...say it, baby..."

"I don't say no."

The voice was harsh, hot in his ear: "Again."

"I don't...s-say no..."

"That's right." Now suddenly the cock inside him seemed to be changing, growing thicker and hotter, penetrating further inside him every time, coating his insides with scum. "Remember what I told you?" Sasha grunted. "You remember?"

"Yuh — yes."

"I'll never let you go...but now there's someone else who wants to be a part of this. It's what we need, baby...family...do you want to be a part of our family?"

"Yes," he whimpered.

"Good," Sasha said. "You're ready."

A soft tentacle touched his mouth and he fought to pull away, to scream. He couldn't move. He was pinned by a multitude of limbs and no matter how he struggled he couldn't make a sound. He sank and sank, in terror that he would never surface. His chest burned and his heart exploded, his body flailing as he drowned...it's over, all over...can't get out, can't...it's over...

"It's over," Sasha whispered. "Open your eyes."

Casey heard a sound — like a sob, a sad little whimper.

"C'mon, kitten, you're okay...you're okay, you're awake."

He peeled open eyes that were crusted and stinging with salt, saw that he was not drowning, not sinking into the dark.

"Hey," Sasha said softly. "There you are."

Yeah, there he was, with two fistfuls of Sasha's silk pajamas, but nothing left of him, no will or voice or energy to fight. He was in Sasha's arms — the arms of a Sasha who was nothing like Roy, or an alien, just warm and demanding nothing — but it didn't matter because he had been sent back again. Rejected again, and he buried himself against Sasha, choking on the dregs of recent terror.

"Sasha..."

"Yeah, I'm here...maybe you should tell me about those dreams, huh?"

Casey mangled his handful of silk some more and shook his head.

"What are you going to do, Casey? You can't go on this way."

"Xanax," he whispered, knowing it was a longshot because he didn't feel anxious or scared or anything but dead inside.

"Oh, kitten...I don't think so." There was a gentle rocking motion. "Just try to sleep a bit...for me, please?"

"No..."

"But you're at your limit, you need to sleep."

"No," Casey whimpered. Even limp, lifeless and barely able to keep his eyes open, Casey was determined that he would never sleep again.

"Shh...you're not alone, it's okay...you can sleep, I won't let you dream."

Casey resolved to pretend for Sasha's sake — but before he knew it exhaustion had dragged him down and made a fact of the lie.

When he woke up, the next day was already well underway. Light was illuminating all the familiar corners of his room...his computer, his incomplete efforts with his suitcase...but the colour of it was wrong. The dimensions seemed distorted, the walls uneven and too close. Casey kept the covers over his head so he wouldn't have to see too much of it. He was glad that Zeke wasn't here to see how he was now reduced to laying in bed and shaking. He wanted to summon the will to rise from his bed but he couldn't; the horror of the dream was still with him, between his legs, against his lips. It wasn't going away.

Time crawled by, measured by the specific shades of white and off-white in the sheets he was staring at. Once in a while he would hear voices outside his makeshift shelter. Mostly Sasha's voice.

"Casey...are you getting up...? Not just yet, huh...okay, I guess you could use the sleep."

"C'mon, kitten, let's not do this. You promised to tell me what happened, remember?"

"Casey, did you take your pills today?"

"Kitten? It's lunch time, you know."

"I've got some toast and tea here for you...do you want it?"

Finally, because it was the easiest way to get back to his solitude, Casey excavated himself; he sat up and ate the toast, then lay back down immediately.

At some point, there was a conference out in the hallway, or perhaps in Sasha's room, that didn't quite fall out of earshot.

"I don't know if I should go..."

"Sasha...you need to go to work."

"Thank you for that, Jerry, but I can figure things out."

"But you already missed so much...and his dad is here."

A short pause.

"No disrespect, Frank, but I need to feel comfortable with leaving Casey, even if he isn't alone. After all, you're only going to be here for a few days. No offence."

"But he's my son. I can take care of him."

"Sasha, listen..."

"Jerry. Lay off."

"You can't let your life come to a crashing halt."

"Jerry, we've had this discussion."

"And you said — "

"I know what I said." A silence, then, "Fuck. I don't know what to do..."

"I said I can handle it."

Another pause, a lengthier one.

Okay...but only if you promise that you'll phone if anything happens..."

Casey closed his gritty eyes, just to rest them — only to jerk them open with a start. He had drifted into sleep and that couldn't happen again. Unfurling the blankets, he looked over at the clock. From the time, he knew that Sasha had probably gone to work, and Jerry too.

He didn't think he had made much of a noise, but almost immediately his father inserted himself in the room, wearing a tentative face. "You were asleep," he informed Casey.

"Is Sasha gone?"

"Yes," his father replied, wincing. The question bothered him in some way and Casey knew that he should be able to remember how and why but there was just a blank where that knowledge should be. "So what's it going to take to get you out of this bed?"

Casey thought about that. He was stiff from lying here all day. His mouth felt putrid, while his body seemed to be crusted with filth. He should really get up and shower — if only he'd had the energy for it.

Sounding hopeful, his father said, "We went to the grocery store and picked up a few things. I could make you a sandwich."

"Not really hungry."

"Well, how about I make you a sandwich anyway, pal?"

"Dunno," Casey mumbled.

His father folded his arms. "Here's the deal, Casey. I'm just going to give your mother a quick call and let her know how things are going. I expect you to join me in the kitchen in a few minutes."

Casey understood that his father was not going to accept anything but full capitulation, so he nodded.

His father looked ridiculously pleased. "All right. See you in a minute."

Once his father was gone, Casey wrenched himself into a sitting position, then swung his legs onto the floor. They felt heavy, like he was wearing twenty pound shoes. There was a lightness in his head, a buzzing around his ears. He supposed it would help if he ate something. If nothing else, it would make his father feel better.

Unexpectedly, he thought of his journal. There weren't a lot of words in him, but there were some things that had to be recorded. Moving slowly, he got up and found it still in his backpack. Sitting down once more on his bed, he wrote with some difficulty; even his hands seemed weak right now.

Zeke is in L. A.

Zeke left me.

Trying not to hear Dad talking to Mom, giving her the report. Will try to be a good boy and eat my supper. Wish I could say I've been a good son.

"Casey!" came the holler.

Placing the journal on the bed, Casey emerged from his room for the first time that day and joined his father in the kitchen. There was something wrong with that scenario — because it should be Zeke, Zeke should be the one here trying to entice Casey with sandwiches, it should be Zeke —

"I though we could plug in one of those movies of yours — " His father broke off, looking at him with a pained expression. "What's the matter?"

"With what?"

"You're upset."

Casey was honestly puzzled. "Why?"

"You've been crying."

"Oh. I didn't know." Casey found himself blinking harder, faster...he couldn't keep up with the liquid that kept filling his eyes.

His father put a hand on his shoulder. "Casey."

"Huh?" he sniffed.

"I know I'm just your father and I don't get a lot of things...but tell me what I can do to help."

"Nothing."

The reaction in his father's face was startling; Casey hadn't thought his father could be this hurt by anything that he said. "I — I see," his father replied. He coughed, struggling to contain emotion. "Well...let's just try to relax and watch a flick, okay?"

"I just — need the bathroom first."

"Sure, pal." His father headed to the living room while Casey went to the bathroom, locking the door this time.

The mirror was still there, waiting for him; this time, he made himself look. There was a face there — whatever that meant. It was pieces of flesh wired together with electrical-chemical reactions and nothing beyond that.

In his life, he'd had careful, systematic instruction on this one point: He would never be anything unless he gave away everything. And he'd learned his lesson well. He'd obeyed orders and taken blows of all kinds, he'd ignored things when they hurt or burned inside him, he'd even laid himself down and let the enemy have him, he'd given his last scrap of self — only to find himself alone in the end. Now his body hurt all over, he was so cold and so frightened and this time there was not something wonderful at the core of it all. There would be no atonement, no belonging, no quiet, mindless dissolution no matter how much he wanted it now.

He collapsed into a huddle on the bathroom floor and whimpered.

He could sneak out of the house, find a man to fuck him — except that he couldn't stand to be touched. He could find a thousand people to fuck him and shut him down and that stupid, ugly flesh would still show in the mirror. It made no sense that he should be nothing and still have to see that face. The flesh should just stop, and obviously the only way was if he stopped it himself.

"Casey? Are you okay?"

He should disappear once and for all, then — but he didn't want to die. He didn't, he didn't...he was that much of a coward, and a hypocrite too. Always talking about disappearing but somehow dying was too scary...and he didn't want to leave Sasha or his parents. Or even — especially — Zeke, who had left him already. They would hate him forever if he left them that way and he couldn't endure that.

"Casey?! Answer me!" His father's fist sounded against the cheap wooden door.

So he was trapped.

"Casey, if you don't open this door in ten seconds, I'm taking it down!"

There was a flicker of an idea, something about not letting his father do this. He should get up, he should shout...except he couldn't move. "Don't," he whispered. "Leave me alone."

"All right, I'm coming in!" his father shouted.

The first noise of his father's foot making contact made Casey shudder and jump. There was a curse, and then the thudding resumed...again...and again...with the next, there was the added sound of wood splitting. Another, and the door jamb shattered. The catch gave way and a large male person poured into the bathroom.

"Casey!" His father fell on the floor next to him and began searching for signs of injury, feeling him up with an invasiveness that would have been illegal under any other circumstances. "Are you hurt — is there blood — nothing here — " His father was babbling, turning Casey's arms palm-side up, examining them. "Nothing. You're okay — you're not hurt."

"Not hurt," Casey mumbled.

"What were you thinking?" his father thundered. "Why do you do this?"

It was probably a mistake to try and respond to that. Casey had no answer other than to let his hands fell open, gesturing helplessly to his father who was kneeling beside him. His father looked at his open palms like he thought the answer might be written there, then up at Casey. And then he snatched Casey up into his hold, grappling with their respective arms and legs, holding him awkwardly. Casey was aware that his father was squeezing him hard and tight and even though a part of his brain couldn't accept that, he was quite willing to break down into sobs, and he even used a word that he hadn't used in more than ten years. "Sorry, Daddy...I didn't want to...didn't want to, I'm sorry..."

"Casey..."

"It hurts."

"I know...it's okay..."

"It hurts...I just...want it to stop."

"It's gonna be okay."

Casey didn't believe that it could ever possibly be okay — but he didn't mind hearing it from his father, especially when his father was on the bathroom floor with him. Only when his eyes were burning from the salt and there was no part of his sinus system that wasn't congested, only then was he able to stop his sobbing.

Vaguely he noted that he was sort of half-sitting, half-kneeling while his father still had his arms wrapped around him. He tried to move, afraid that his father was finding this situation intolerable — but the arms around him tightened. "Just stay put," his dad said.

Casey stayed put. It was quiet in the bathroom, save for his sniffles and shuddery, breathy noises.

However, it was inevitable his dad started to squirm and shift; Casey knew that his back was probably hurting him and moved out of his hold. This time his dad did let him go, but he helped Casey onto his feet, emitting a few grunts of discomfort as they struggled upright. He removed his hands from Casey finally with what appeared to be reluctance.

"Now what?" he asked Casey. "Should we call Sasha?"

Casey shook his head. It was appealing, it was really fucking dear to his heart as far as ideas went — but so what if he called and Sasha rushed home to comfort him? Yeah, Sasha was a genius at providing comfort, but obviously, comfort wasn't the answer. Casey had just sobbed himself to exhaustion in his father's arms and he was no less sick, no less despondent and trapped than he had been half an hour ago. The only thing different was that he was even more afraid.

Another answer moved into his mind with unanticipated clarity.

"Need to...call Yves," Casey said.

"Yves?" his father echoed, blinking.

"My shrink...gotta call her."

"What do you think she'll do?"

"I don't know but...I need to, Dad. I — I'm scared, I might — I was thinking about — I'm scared of what I might do."

His father looked just a little bit frantic. He rubbed his chin and scowled, obviously trying to process this, but said straightforwardly enough, "I don't want to see you in some hospital ward, Casey."

"Maybe I should be."

"No," his father blurted. "No, I don't accept that. Maybe you shouldn't call her if she's going to do that. That's not for you, Casey."

"But — "

"That's not for you," his father insisted, his voice constricted.

"But I don't know what else to do," Casey whispered.

"If you would just — explain it to me, let me try — "

"No."

His father blinked, startled and — Casey now understood — hurt at the suggestion that no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he genuinely wanted to, he couldn't make anything better for his son.

"I mean...I just...need to call her, Dad."

"Well, then I guess..." his father hemmed. "Where's the phone?"

"Don't know...need the...the number she gave me." He had written it down somewhere, he was just having trouble accessing that memory at the moment. "...let me look...just..."

In his room, he didn't immediately begin his search for the number; rather, he just spun in circles for a bit, stumbling around the small space while his mind tried to come up with the equation that would confirm the truth of the solution. Sasha might agree with him but Zeke would be mad, Zeke would not like this, he would try to talk him out of it and he might very well be right, Casey might be about to sell himself once and for all to the psychiatrists. He knew that Zeke would try to stop him...so there was no equation, there was no way to make it all add up. It was just him making a decision, and this wasn't up to Zeke anyway.

He now recalled that he had written the number down on a page in his journal, which was still lying open on the bed. He snatched it up and flipped back, page after page after page, dreading that it wasn't there after all, that it was lost.

"Here we go," said his father, entering the room and taking up a position near Casey, clenching the phone against his chest with both hands.

Casey turned some more pages — and there it was at last, dashed across the top of a page that was filled with two week-old reflections. He extended his hand to take the phone.

His father withheld it, though. "Casey...Can you trust her?"

"Yeah."

After the fact, he noticed that his reply had come off more like a question than an answer. Still, his father must have heard something of sincerity in it. "All right," Frank Connor sighed, and relinquished the phone.

Casey's body trembled so much that he found it advisable to sit down on the bed. Shuddering through what was meant to be a simple, calming breath — in and out, in and out, you can do this — he punched his psychiatrist's home number with unsteady fingers, almost missing the buttons a few times but getting it right despite himself.


	8. Chapter 8

It was a glib, slightly amplified female voice that insinuated itself in the fog of Zeke's mental landscape, nudging him from his slouch: "Good afternoon. This is your pre-boarding announcement for Northwest Flight 1806 non-stop to Los Angeles. At this time we ask that all First Class passengers, passengers travelling with small children or needing assistance, please come forward for boarding..."

There was a magazine sitting unread on Zeke's lap, every page of it still crisp and glossy. He checked his watch and tried to fathom that two and a half hours had just vanished into the ether. Presumably he had been thinking really hard and should have come to some truly profound realizations — but all he had to show for it was a whole lot of nothing.

Rewinding the tape on the afternoon, he skimmed over what was more or less a sullen funk and came upon the dissonant memory of leaving Casey. The soundtrack was deceptively low-key at that point, albeit with all sorts of gnashing sounds churning beneath the surface — a scene two people saying good-bye while on both sides of them people streamed back and forth to wherever and whatever, seeming to ignore them but perhaps taking a quick, wondering glance if opportunity afforded it. Thinking to themselves It's a couple of kids having a dramatic moment...a couple of...boys...hey, wait a minute, that boy is touching that other boy...

It was right then in front of the Krispy Kreme that Zeke's larynx had betrayed him, dislodging the words I'll never hate you, noises of sympathy made entirely without the authorization of his brain. His whole body had turned treasonous. After all these months, he should have been resistant to the unique alchemy of Casey's expressive facial features but there had been such an elixir of hopelessness, devastation and shame in that visage that it had been all Zeke could do to turn and make his legs bear him away. And he was the injured party, for fuck's sake.

Of course, once he had gotten out of Casey's direct line of sight his body was content follow normal operating procedures again. He had bought that magazine — along with a fresh pack of smokes — thinking he would need something to pass the time with then walked to Gate Forty-Seven where he'd chosen one of the plush, comfortable seats. He had planted himself in it, glorying in that moment when finally he was entirely alone, or at least as alone as anyone could get in an airport filled with thousands of people. Still it was Zeke Tyler at large in the world, just like the good old days. No Frank Connor, no Allison Connor, none of their particular hang-ups and endless, superficial nattering...but really, the Connor parental factor was only a minor irritant compared to the constant splinter-under-the-nails discomfort of being trapped in Casey's company all day, grinding his teeth and clenching his fists as Casey ran the gamut of his avoidance games. Until today he hadn't known that it was possible to pity someone and be furious at them simultaneously.

"No-o-o! Don' wanna!"

This protest came from the throat of a small child, maybe four years old to Zeke's inexperienced eyes. She was blond and blue-eyed and cute enough that she had already learned just how to use it to her advantage. She was stamping her foot and fomenting against a woman who remained seated, attempting to engage her at eye level — her mother, presumably. The woman was enduring the display with strained aplomb while the glare of the girl was hot and absolute, as though her insistence must be sufficiently compelling in and of itself to force compliance.

"I realize that you don't want to," replied the mother in tones measured by weary patience. "But we can't visit Auntie Laura unless we go on the plane."

"Wanna stay with Daddy."

"Sorry, sweetie, but you can't." Now the mother rose to her feet, abandoning negotiation in favour of an exercise of authority. She held out her hand. "Come on — "

"No!"

"Samantha Ann!" The facade of patience having failed, the mother grabbed the girl's hand. The scene became a war of attrition; the mother had to drag her screeching offspring to the gate, containing the child inadequately with one hand and presenting her boarding pass and identification with the other, all the while casting abashed looks at her soon-to-be fellow passengers.

And Zeke mused to himself,Now there's true love.

Not that he knew anything about the "L" word. Ignoramus that he was, he'd deluded himself right up until yesterday afternoon that Casey felt something for him, that there was something real amidst the obsession and the lies and the endless drama. A tiny, obstinate part of him had insisted over and over that it was there and so, over and over, he would dedicate his best resources to dredging up those scraps of evidence. But he no longer had the will for that — nor the inclination, really. Love had never been one of his priorities, and certainly not this stupid, cue-the-music-and-ride- off-into-the sunset thing that had held sway over him for months. He'd envisioned himself as Casey's protector, his soul-mate and, of course, the only person Casey could ever need. What a fucking joke.

"No-o-o-o!" screamed Samantha Ann, her voice rising in pitch and volume to an astonishing level.

Yep, gotta be true love, Zeke concluded. And I'm going to be trapped on an airplane for two hours with it. He had nothing against children but after an almost sleepless night and hours of stress already today he was in need of more peaceful conditions. He had earned a time-out.

So much of the stress had been basic, ordinary anger but a lot of it was shock, too. And his head wouldn't shut the fuck up. It kept muttering about this and that, distracting and occasionally throwing him completely off, abhorring Casey's more annoying qualities one second and rattling away in admiration the next. Of course it went without saying that Casey always had the capacity to surprise him. Just in the past twenty-four hours he'd been totally astounded. Casey had never looked anything but entirely shattered but there had been no zone-outs, no panic attacks. Well, the drugs probably made a difference — but still, Zeke should have known, he should have remembered the strength that Casey could muster when he wanted to.

Yeah, Zeke was impressed by Casey and that was to be expected, he could never entirely despise someone who clawed his way up from absolute bottom the way that Casey had — but he was far more impressed by himself. Never had he come so close to deliberately striking Casey as he had yesterday. He had not only controlled it, though, he had demonstrated that he was really quite a tolerant, forbearing guy. He'd been pretty fucking forbearing today too, sitting quietly next to Casey in that car for three hours and even being civil to him. It did help that Casey had been asleep most of the way, clinging to unconsciousness as obstinately as the little girl was now attempting to cling to the airline kiosk. That had been a great advantage to Zeke, who had needed those hours to somehow retrain his eyes, to teach them that the Casey they beheld had never existed. That image translated by his optical nerves did not depict something sublime and fragile and perfect — or any of a hundred other adjectives Zeke had applied to it. It was a thing of deceit and dysfunction. It was, in and of itself, a lie.

You knew what you were doing when you did it, he had berated silently, staring at Casey's face as the miles flashed past beyond the window frame. You did it on purpose to hurt me, not any other reason. You knew what would get to me and you fucking got to me. Well, actions have consequences, I'm not going to excuse you this time. Zeke Tyler may forgive but he won't forget.

Zeke was not without compassion. He knew that Casey felt a compulsion to do certain things, act in certain ways — but it didn't mean that he wasn't accountable for himself. Zeke had seen him govern himself quite effectively when he wanted to. Such as all through Christmas holidays, putting on a show about improvement and reflection and change. It may have been bullshit but it did require a fair bit of self- possession. Anyway, it was obvious that this thing with Thomas wasn't about attraction; it was about Casey needing to prove that he deserved the things that Roy had done to him. It was Casey seeking proof of Zeke's love too, at least as far as he could comprehend the concept. Or proof that he was the slut that he named himself, that he was all those words that Zeke had heard him use from time to time...filthy, useless, unworthy. He was literally begging Zeke to pass judgment on him. Daring Zeke to prove him right so if Zeke was a nice guy he would not judge. He would just accept and they would move on.

Yeah, Zeke was all limbered up and ready to dance the acceptance dance. He could feel that craven, codependent part of himself urging forgiveness but he just couldn't settle the part of him that was selfish and hurt and demanding a real explanation. Fuck the theory of it all. As far as his heart was concerned, everything that he had done for Casey, all the time he'd put in, and the work, and the fucking sacrifice — all of that should have made a difference. He'd never given so much to another person and he'd never wanted to. He should have made a difference.

And he was not going to accept when he still didn't understand. He still didn't know what had happened in that room in the Herrington Best Western last August, not really. Casey had proven quite conclusively that he could shovel convincing bullshit even under the most stressful conditions, so his stammered agreement to the scenario that Zeke had constructed proved absolutely nothing. Indeed, Zeke had fucked up twice over because not only was the confession incomplete, it had been extracted under duress. Clearly there had been an event and that event had damaged Casey but that was all Zeke really knew. He had complete faith in Roy being a selfish shit but otherwise he had only the testimony of Sasha and the letter Roy had sent that had implied Janice's presence and mentioned things getting a little crazy.

Really, there was nothing whatsoever to suggest that Roy had ever done a thing to Casey that was any worse than what others had done. So Roy had hurt Casey physically? Ah, but Zeke had bruised Casey more than once himself, always with his complete assent, sometimes with his encouragement. Okay, then Roy had neglected Casey — but so had Casey's parents. They had not been condemned for it. They were still around, still active in Casey's life.

If nothing else, Roy had controlled Casey, kept him in a position where being submissive was the only power he had. Roy had disregarded his rights as a person — no question, right? Except that was true of everyone who knew Casey. They all ordered him around, monitored where he went, what he did, what he ate, how much he slept. Seeing as everyone in Casey's life was a Roy, how could Zeke hold Roy accountable for a damn thing? He would have to blame everyone equally, including himself. They were, all of them, Roy.

In the much less convoluted space that was external to Zeke's tirade, the screaming Samantha Ann had been detached from her anchor. Zeke traded a glance with an elderly lady sitting in a seat almost directly across from him. She raised her brows wistfully, as if to say Here we go.

Zeke dislodged himself from the seat that he'd inhabited for almost three hours now and walked as far away as he could, hitching his backpack over one shoulder. He had a strong premonition that if he got on that plane he would lose his mind; the flight, not to mention everything that was to follow it, was becoming less and less endurable. He absolutely didn't want to be in Seattle now but at the same time he didn't know if he could stand beside Jacob and shake hands, laugh at dumb jokes and reminiscences, eat cake and smile indulgently at whatever godawful music was being played. He would much rather...well, nothing. There was nothing he'd rather do.

Except hunt down Roy and hurt him until he confessed that he was a genuinely cruel, heartless bastard who had victimized Casey in ways that Zeke could only begin to empathize with, ways that would make it totally understandable that Casey did the fucked-up things that he did. That would be so much more relevant.

"This is your boarding call on Northwest Flight 1806 non-stop to Los Angeles. All passengers in Rows Thirty through Twenty-One, please come forward..."

Zeke glanced at his boarding pass and confirmed that he was in Row Eight. He had a few minutes to kill, so he could indulge a mad idea in the meantime.

To find and confront Roy. Oh, but it would be a truly audacious move on Zeke's part. He really liked that about it — although it was still less nervy than travelling twice a week to a hotel in Herrington to exploit a much younger, much more vulnerable person, to use them until they were broken. There had to be a sense of entitlement in this man that bordered on sociopathic. It could not be a case of simple misunderstanding or a series of mistakes that culminated in one big mistake. If it was all just a mistake, there would be very little difference between Roy and a person who physically trapped and remorselessly interrogated Casey until he vomited up the worst truth in his possession.

Zeke couldn't deny it: He had pushed Casey far past the point of necessity or kindness or real understanding, forcing Casey to an act of self-destruction. That might just have been Roy-like behaviour...but suppose that Zeke could prove once and for all that he was not Roy —

Fuck it. It was absurd. It was improbable.

It was the only way to be sure that he knew what he knew. To find that there was something he could understand, that he would never just make up a pleasing fiction so he could forgive. Forcing the issue with Casey had gained him nothing except an appreciation that, when it came to lying, Casey had few peers. Even if by some miracle Casey had attempted honesty yesterday, it didn't mean that Zeke had gotten the truth. Information derived from torture was known to be unreliable, plus Casey's memory of the event in question was very likely compromised. He had been starving and dehydrated, barely coherent. Of the three witnesses to that day, he was probably the least credible.

"This is your boarding call for Northwest Flight 1806 non-stop to Los Angeles. All passengers in Rows Twenty through Nine, please come forward for boarding. Please have your boarding pass and identification ready."

Standing next to a smooth, grey metal pillar, Zeke watched the line of passengers forming and re-forming. If he was going to Los Angeles, he should really get up and join them...except his body was doing that betrayal thing again. His feet were in a state of outright rebellion.

So what do you want? he demanded of himself. He was not a person who believed much in intuition, but it did seem like the non-sentient parts of himself were trying to tell him something. You don't like this airline? This particular plane? Oh, I know. It's the little girl, right? Well, that's life, you know. You have to put up with a certain amount of shit.

Fuck that, the rest of him shot back. You never used to put up with shit. You were a bad ass alpha dog who did whatever it took to keep things in order.

I've changed...and anyway, I think I've been sufficiently badass lately.

Oh, really? And which badass was it who said all that stuff about 'Oh, I'm sorry, Casey.' 'Sorry I have to do this.' 'I'll forgive you, Casey.' 'I'll never hate you, Casey.'

Zeke's cheeks warmed at his own debasement. What do you want from me?

How about a return to our former glory? There was a time when Zeke Tyler didn't apologize or compromise on what was best for him. He would get off his soft, sentimental ass and take no prisoners.

I could dump Casey, I guess. Would that make you happy?

It would be the simplest way. No one would blame you.

"This is your final boarding call for Northwest Flight 1806 non-stop to Los Angeles. All passengers in Rows Eight through One, please come forward for boarding, and please have your boarding pass and identification ready."

Zeke was finally able to convince his feet to move, taking him to the back of the line. It was ludicrous to be standing there like he didn't know what to do with himself. He had a ticket and a plane waiting for him; he had a destination. Moreover, he had familial obligation and, quite evidently, he had to figure out how to exist in such a way that not every moment of every day was about Casey.

But I don't want to hurt him. He's been hurt enough.

Well, cry me a river...and it's kinda too late to not hurt him by the way. Okay, if you're not going to dump him, you sap, then the least you can do is make sure that we don't look stupid. Maybe he's made a chump of us again but this time we don't have to let him get away with it.

And how would I do that?

Like you don't fucking know.

"Boarding pass, sir?"

Zeke blinked at the smiling female in a red sweater over a red, pin-striped blouse. She was holding out her hand expectantly.

"Um...yeah..." he started.

Unexpectedly, his own hand withdrew itself and the boarding pass.

"Sir?"

"You know what?" he said. "I've changed my mind."

The cynical parts of him said he had just gone psychotic — but he figured the rest of him had to know what it was doing. If he was going to go back to Seattle and forgive Casey — which let's face it, sap was more or less a given — he had to know that at least he wasn't ridiculous, that people weren't snickering behind their hands at him.

"Changed your mind?"

"I don't want to go to Los Angeles today."

"I'm not sure that we'll be able to refund your ticket, sir."

"That's okay." Zeke took a few steps sideways, so that it would be clearly indicated that he was no longer in the line. "Will I need to go back through security to get out?"

"Are you sure, sir? The plane will be leaving in fifteen minutes."

"Yes, I'm quite sure."

"Um...I will need to page security...and there may be a delay to get your luggage."

"Of course," Zeke answered, and resolved to give it no more than a half hour. If it took longer to get his bags because they were buried in the belly of the plane or something, he would leave and come back for them in a day, or two days...however long it took.

As it turned out, the airline's customer service was more than adequate. Thirty minutes later, Zeke and his luggage were waiting out in the Arrivals zone in front of the airport. There was a long row of taxi-cabs. He waved at one, whose back trunk obligingly popped open for him. Throwing in his bags and slamming it closed, he slipped into the back seat of the vehicle.

"Can you take me to a library?" He'd made the most of his time while waiting for security to clear him and for the airline people to retrieve his bags. It was near the end of the day and he had to act quickly. There wasn't enough time to find a hotel right now, not if he was going to get anything accomplished today, so it looked like he was going to be dragging these fricking suitcases with him everywhere for a while. "There's a public library downtown, right?"

"Sure is...huge one," the cabbie said. She was a largish woman who looked and sounded like she'd led a rough life.

As they descended into metropolitan Cincinnati, Zeke deduced from her choice of radio stations that she liked classic rock. From her complete silence, he deduced that she was not much of a talker and he was relieved; talking would have distracted him. Holding himself in a state of tremulous calm the entire way, he was primed to spring into action the moment he hit the sidewalk. I need to know, he chanted to himself. Need to know, need to know... Zeke Tyler was no gullible idiot, he wouldn't let himself be taken advantage of, and he wouldn't go to his father's wedding until he had proven that.

But there was more. His insides absolutely quivered with satisfaction as he anticipated himself outlining everything he had learned to Casey. I understand you, he would say. And there's nothing you can do about it. He would tell Casey how one of them was going to provide Dr. Yves with the true story of Casey's last encounter with Roy. If Casey refused, then it would fall to Zeke and he would finally be in a position to do it right. Naturally, no other person on the planet would understand Casey as completely as he did — but he could be magnanimous. He would share his acquired knowledge with Dr. Yves, as it would make all the difference in enabling her to do her job.

His cab left him at the main branch of the Cinncinati Public library on Vine Street. It was a modern red-brick and glass edifice that swallowed almost an entire city block; there was an aesthetic surprise when Zeke went inside and discovered that an atrium formed the centre of the structure, wrapping around a much older building. He could see all the way up to the top of five, wondrous floors of information but he could only pause briefly to appreciate the architectural ingenuity. He had his mission.

Moving as speedily as he could, he found a place out of the way to put his bags, near the bank of public access computers that was his objective. A sign informed him that he would have to pay for any printing that he did. He claimed one of the two or three open stations, opened the web browser and Googled "Donald Windle".

There was a lot more material about the man than Zeke had been expecting. The very first hit was an article from the Cincinnati Enquirer describing the opening of a new exhibition at the Contemporary Arts Centre, sponsored by the Windle Family Trust. The article was dated only two months back and went on at some length about Roy, who had appeared at the dedication in person. Zeke was surprised to discover that Roy had recently taken over his father's business; he remembered Roy writing to Casey about how he was planning to dedicate himself to his art — but then, learning that Roy had told another lie should not be anything startling. Casey had studied under a master.

'I'm personally very committed to the arts,' notes Mr. Windle. 'In fact, I was until last year, a graduate student in Fine Arts at the University of Ohio. Some of my work is on the university website. But then my father died and I had to take on other responsibilities.'

Windle is the President and Chair of WindleCorp. His family owns a majority of shares in the company and Windle currently is working full-time with the family business.

'It's a far cry from photography,' Windle says. 'But I'm certainly glad to be able to contribute in this way to something that I love.'

Returning to his search results, Zeke found University of Ohio website and located the student-maintained gallery that Roy had mentioned, as well as descriptions of several courses Roy that had taught last year; he glanced at the images of Roy's work only long enough to note that they were black and white photographic portraits, then moved on.

There was some business relating to a legal action against WindleCorp and some references to membership in the Cincinnati Chamber of Commerce, and finally, there were a number of items from "around town" or social departments of various papers and newsletters. A person who knew nothing of Roy except his name could easily learn that the youthful Mr. and Mrs. Windle had been seen often on the Cincinnati social scene, even before their marriage in May. After only four months together, however, they had divorced. Then, more recently, Donald Windle had been seen about town with various young men. There was one photo of Roy and another person but it was of such poor quality that Zeke could barely make out Roy's features. The caption hinted slyly at the nature of Roy's relationship. A few hits down the page, Zeke came across an article from only three weeks ago discussing Roy's profile as a "prominent gay businessman."

Conscious that the remainder of the afternoon was dwindling, Zeke looked up the website of WindleCorp. As he had suspected, their head office was in downtown Cincinnati. He clicked on the page for WindleCorp's Board of Directors and was not disappointed. Each board member was listed along with his or her picture. Roy was at the top of the page, smiling in his very proper but stylish business attire.

"There you are, shithead," Zeke whispered to himself.

He had been told more than once that Roy was handsome, and the photograph did nothing to contradict it. Longish, wavy brown hair surrounded an almost-pretty face with a straight nose and full lips. The eyes were also brown, and their warmth was notable even in a digital photograph on a less than top-quality monitor. The smile couldn't be said to be anything less than exceptionally attractive.

Zeke printed that page, as well as the page with WindleCorp's address. There was no direct phone number listed for Roy's personal office, but there was a general number for "inquiries". He paid for his printing in a hurry, cramming the sheets in his backpack, and then retrieved the two pieces of luggage that he was truly beginning to hate. It felt like he had been hauling them with him everywhere for weeks now.

The next step was to find a hotel. Emerging onto the slushy, dirty street, he signalled another cab and climbed in. "Where are you going?" asked the cabbie, this time a man who must have hailed from some east Indian country.

"A hotel..." Zeke shrugged. His sense of how little time he had left had him almost frantic now. "Someplace good."

"Someplace good..." muttered the man. "Can you be more specific? How much do you want to spend?"

"Doesn't matter," Zeke grunted, fighting the urge to scream with impatience. "Just take me somewhere."

"How about the Hyatt?"

"That's fine."

While the cabbie drove, Zeke pulled out the phone number to Windle Enterprises. He checked the time and found that it was a few minutes before four. "Fuck me!" he muttered.

"Excuse me, sir, but I don't really care for your language," complained the cabbie.

"Sorry."

Shit. Shitshitshit. Fuck. Maybe he should have tried to somehow reach Roy at home — but there were just too many variables that way. It was a given that asking Sasha to help him was out of the question; Sasha would immediately invest all his persuasive powers in talking Zeke out of this plan. Which left the Cincinnati phonebook, and Zeke had decided while waiting for his luggage earlier not to bother trying it. Even if Roy were listed, which seemed quite unlikely, Zeke could only assume that there were a number of D. Windles and possibly more than one Donald. He only had two days to find and conclude this business; there was no time to go down the list and hope that he got lucky.

Well, he still might be able to catch Roy at his office. The guy was supposedly a high-powered executive now, so chances were he didn't march out the door at four-thirty...that was, if he was in town, and if he was at work.

Chance. Zeke didn't like that word one bit. Chance had far too much sway over this process but if he really thought about that he would become too discouraged to continue. He couldn't allow for despair, not when he had mere minutes to accomplish something here... unless he decided to miss the wedding. If he did that he would burn the very slight bridge that had been slung recently between himself and his father. He would do it if necessary but, to his own surprise, he wasn't quite prepared to light that particular match. Not just yet.

Shaking off the seduction of negative thought, he tried the WindleCorp number and got the receptionist. "WindleCorp, how may I direct your call?"

"Donald Windle's office, please."

Zeke wasn't at all expecting it when the woman replied, "Just a moment and I'll transfer you." He found himself sitting forward on the edge of his seat, oblivious to the where he was being taken, ignorant of anything beyond the walls and ceiling and upholstery of the cab. It couldn't possibly be this easy, it couldn't...There was no Roy at the other end of this phone. It was just too unlikely.

"This is Angela Gomez, executive assistant to Mr. Donald Windle. I am unable to take your call right now but if you — "

Fury surged and ran rampant in every cell, every part of Zeke. Shuddering, he hung up, and resisted the urge to do a Casey on his cell phone. He needed his phone to stay undestroyed or he was screwed.

But he didn't know what the the fuck he was doing here. Stalking his boyfriend's ex-boyfriend, for fuck's sake, like a person who had lost all perspective and possibly their mind. And it was even more stupid than that — the realization spreading inside him like a sickness — because he didn't even have a number he could leave for Roy. If he left his cell number with the Seattle area code, Roy would be suspicious. He doubted that he had the time to change his number to a local one and call Roy back.

Zeke closed his eyes and tried to just breathe through the screams of rage pressing on his windpipe. He should have gotten on the fucking plane.

His sole task for the next few minutes was holding himself together until he had been delivered to the hotel. It materialized soon enough, a multi-storied affair, more new than old and quite upscale for Zeke's needs. He gave his cab driver a large tip all the same and, striding into the lobby, let himself crumble into one of the couches that had been positioned there, one among a succession of living room sets that caused the place to resemble a furniture store.

After a few minutes of being morose, however, pure obstinacy came to his rescue, prodded him to keep going with the plan even if there was little hope for results. With not even a half an hour of useful time left, he had two options — quickly find a shop where he could buy a new phone and set up a new account, or call his cellular provider. Otherwise, he should start approaching people at random and offering them a thousand dollars for the use of their phone for the weekend.

With a deep sigh, he punched the number for his cellular company, not expecting this process to take anything less than an hour. Another thought skittered briefly through his mind — had his provider not been a national enterprise, he would have been really screwed. As it was, a certain amount of discussion was required, interspersed with maddening periods of waiting. A few times he prayed for the ability to transport himself across the cellular network so he could wring someone's neck. Ultimately, it did happen, his old number was cancelled and he was assigned a new number in the Cincinnati area. He then recorded a new outgoing message, using his father's name.

But by now it was well past four-thirty. It was probably impossible to expect anything — he was just stubborn enough to call back WindleCorp. His mood lifted the tiniest bit when the switchboard receptionist actually answered. It seemed that WindleCorp was open until five rather than four-thirty. He again asked for Donald Windle, and this time when he got the assistant's voicemail, he left a message.

"Hello, my name is...Jacob Tyler. I'm a student in journalism at the University of Cincinnati and I was hoping to get in touch with Mr. Windle. I saw some of his work on the University of Ohio student gallery and I've read his bio on-line. I'd really like to interview him for a piece I'm writing. It's for an assignment but it could also get published in the university magazine. I'm very interested in artists who make careers in something more practical and Mr. Windle would be an ideal person to interview. I realize this is an awkward time of year but I already had to get an extension on this and it's due my first day back at school...so I thought I would try to call. If Mr. Windle could call me back as soon as possible, that would be wonderful. My number is 555-7801, please call anytime. Thank you."

Hanging up, he reminded himself that he was fucked. There was no way that Roy would get this message and respond to it before tomorrow, and in fact it would be a miracle if Zeke got any kind of response at all. This whole business really required more considered planning, not to mention some serious stalking; he had been a dope to convince himself that it could be this easy.

Well, the only thing he knew was that it was time to crash. Towards five o'clock he and his bags arrived on the ninth floor. As he slid the key-card into the lock, he was thinking about nothing more ambitious than sprawling on his back. The serene, non-descript space that presented itself to him was one of the most inviting things he had ever seen. He left his luggage by the door and within minutes had moulded himself into a comfortable groove on the bed, with the TV on low.

Inevitably, it was necessary to call his father; at a bare minimum he owed the man a warning that he wasn't going to arrive tonight. Bracing himself for a hard time, Zeke called his father's cell number, not sure where he might be at the moment — home, or work or somewhere else. Not on the highway to LAX to pick up his son, Zeke hoped.

There was an answer before the second ring. "Jacob Tyler."

"Hey...it's Zeke."

"Oh, hi...we're just about to go out to get you, are you using the phone on the plane?"

"Uh...no...I'm not."

A pause, then Jacob said, "Your flight was delayed."

"No."

"So what's going on?"

"Well..."

There didn't seem to be any way to say it, other than to say it.

"I'm not going to be arriving tonight."

Again, a tight silence. "Why not?"

Zeke gave serious consideration to the proposition that he was acting like a confused, brokenhearted twit. "I'm sorry, Jacob. I do intend to be there, it's just that something come up."

"Something came up," Jacob echoed.

"It's...complicated."

"Is it to do with Casey?"

And just like that remorse gave way to resentment. "Why would you say that?"

"Just a guess."

Zeke huffed and blustered but unfortunately he couldn't deny the truth of it. "It kinda does have to do with him... but he has a lot of things going on that you don't understand..."

"I think I do understand a bit. It's okay, Zeke...but I suppose he's not going to be coming to the wedding?"

"That's right," Zeke replied curtly.

It was a statement, not a question: "Something's wrong, isn't it."

"Yes, but I don't really feel like telling you." That came out a lot more harsh than Zeke had intended because, for some reason that was utterly beyond his ability to comprehend, his throat had suddenly started aching.

"Are you all right?"

"Sure."

"You don't sound..."

"I said I'm fine."

"All right — but why haven't you — ? Where are you right now?"

"Cincinnati."

"Why, Zeke?"

"I just fucking told you — "

"Okay, okay," Jacob relented. "Just...make sure you call me tomorrow."

"All right."

"Do you have any idea when you'll be arriving?"

"Some time between now and Sunday night."

Jacob sighed. "Should I be worried about whatever this is?"

Zeke debated ending the call right there. "It's nothing illegal," he forced out. "I should go now, Jacob."

"All right, but...call me tomorrow."

"Okay." Disconnecting, Zeke laid back against the pillow and resumed surfing channels. He found some football and had watched only two plays and one commercial for the Rose Bowl Parade when he realized that this wasn't working for him.

Bare minutes ago he had been looking forward to a night in this very position. Now he was ready to crawl the walls. He was on the bed and then he was up on his feet...then down, then up, then pacing, then standing at the window looking down at the city. There was an energy was coursing through him, insisting that he should get up and run a marathon or build a car from the chassis up — not that he had any clue of how to do that but he could fucking well learn, anything but remain in this room tonight. It was pretty interesting out there in the world. He should take advantage of it, especially since for some time now he'd been privately grousing about his lack of freedom, wishing for time to himself...just for himself.

It might be a good idea to call home before he went out. If Casey or someone tried to call his cell right now, they would get a nasty shock.

Fuck it. He didn't want to talk to Casey — who, he remembered, would not even be home yet. It could wait. And he wanted out. Out of this room, this building. He had not become so co-dependent that he didn't know how to enjoy himself apart from his co-dependee.

Coat...boots...backpack. Grabbing his phone, he stole a look at the battery meter. It was low, and once again he was entirely taken off guard by a desire to go rampaging. The chances of receiving a call tonight were slim, he reminded himself. He should set the battery to charge now so it would be ready for tomorrow. Or he could just take it with him and let it die when its time came, then charge it tonight while he slept. Yeah, that would work and he was being a total fuckwit for some reason, freaking out over ridiculous things, missing the obvious.

The stinging, icy rain outside did not deter him from enjoying his sense of liberation once he was out and wandering around. He did a broad tour of an area of six or seven blocks, thrilling to the physical challenge of dodging people and other obstacles. In the course of his explorations he spotted several restaurants that looked interesting — the only problem with them was that he didn't feel hungry, a peculiarity since he hadn't eaten a thing since corn flakes in the Connors' kitchen this morning, a lifetime ago.

When he began to feel soaked through, he let himself be drawn into a Tower Records store. He spent a solid hour browsing while drying off, and realizing that he was completely out of it as far as music was concerned. Trying not to be obvious, he watched others in the store, young people, to all appearance his contemporaries and yet he felt impossibly removed from them. They wandered in small groups that broke apart in Metal and reformed in Hip-Hop; he listened to them exclaiming and carrying on inane conversations, then sampled CD's all along a wall of listening stations. He heard almost nothing that he liked. He left without buying a thing and once back on the sidewalk, suddenly recalling that he still hadn't listened to the CD that Casey had made for him. It was probably an endless chorus of forgive me's. Never understand me, no, Casey didn't ask for understanding. It was though he intended his inner world to remain shrouded in a mystical, inscrutable cloud.

The next stop was a Barnes & Noble and whereas Zeke had had difficulty with the new music, he had no difficulty finding new things to read. He started off in Fiction and browsed his way from there to Psychology, History and Philosophy. He had five books tucked under his arm by the time he got to the magazines — and there he became enraptured. In Seattle, he'd always had his standbys that he picked up in corner stores or wherever it was convenient in the course of his day but he'd spent little time really exploring the bookstores there. The few excursions he'd taken with Winona had been brief, and few. There was probably every bit as much of a variety in Seattle as here, if not more, and he'd been missing all of it; four months in Seattle and he might as well have been living in Herrington. Whatever happens, he vowed to himself, it's going to be different now. He was not meant to be a small-town boy. He was meant to be cosmopolitan, sophisticated, combing the city for food, books and music to consume.

Setting down his pile of new books on a convenient ledge and his backpack at his feet, he grew roots in the Current Affairs section of the magazines.

When his phone rang, he was so startled that he actually shouted out loud in the store; a bunch of people nearby tried to subtly put more distance between themselves and him. Meanwhile his heart seemed to be trying to do an alien-explosion thing and tear right out of his rib cage. Taking a calming breath — he was Zeke Ice Tyler, action man — he flipped open the phone.

"Hello?"

The voice was unmistakably male and to Zeke's ears it reeked of self- assurance. "Hello, is this Jacob Tyler?"

"Yes?"

"This is Donald Windle calling."

"Oh...hi," Zeke fumbled, and called himself every synonym for idiot that he knew.

"I hope it's not too late for you."

"No..." Zeke said, his voice hoarse from the anxiety straining behind it. He cleared his throat. "I said to call any time." It was quiet at the other end. Clearly, Roy was waiting for a pitch so, Zeke extemporized, "I wasn't expecting you to call back so quickly. I guess you got my message?"

"Yes, my assistant checks messages regularly and thought I'd want to hear this one. It sounds intriguing. You're lucky you phoned today, as it happens I'm going to be away from the office for the next few days."

"I'm really glad you called." Yeah, equilibrium was not impossible. He wouldn't say he was calm, but he could see calm in the distance. "So would you be willing to do an interview with me?"

"Well, I must admit I'm kind of drawn by the idea of someone talking to me as a photographer again."

Zeke had to take a moment to crow to himself: Gotcha. "Is there a time tomorrow that might be good for you?" he asked.

"Actually, tomorrow is awkward. What are you doing right now?"

The balance shifted again and Zeke felt right on the brink of falling into chaos. "Right now...I'm...just at a bookstore."

"Would you like to meet somewhere for a drink?"

Closing his eyes, Zeke answered, "Where were you thinking?"

"Do you know Flanigan's Pub?"

"Think so," he lied.

"I can meet you there in about half an hour. How does that sound?"

"All right. Thank you."

"No problem. I'll see you shortly — wait, what do you look like?"

"Um...I'm kind of tall, with brown hair."

Roy snorted. "We must be twins."

Zeke hung up and for a few moments came close to hyperventilating right there in the bookstore. Calm! he screamed at himself. You will be fucking calm, right fucking now! For some reason that wasn't working so he just started to move, assuming that he would shake it off.

He had a purpose. He would not fuck up.

Now with a somewhat clearer head and some semblance of together- ness, he found that he was already pointed in the direction of the stationery section of the store. He picked out a nice, thick notebook and several pens. At the cash register, he asked for directions to Flanigan's Pub. It turned out that he was not too far away; he was able to walk there and still be a few minutes early.

It was a classic sort of English pub, with a lot of polished wood, brocaded seats, and old-fashioned fixtures. The lower half of the walls was wainscotted, while the upper half was cluttered with memorabilia, all of it intended to invoke a certain time and place. Zeke found a curved bench seat set into one corner which gave him a wide open view of the door, then flagged down a waitress. She was dressed in a uniform that had her resembling a nymph from an Irish Catholic public school. "I'd like a double vodka, please."

"I'll need to see I.D."

"You're kidding." Zeke had been passing for twenty-one since he was sixteen. He dragged out his driver's licence and showed her.

"Okay," the nymph said, with a brief smile.

While she was gone, he pulled from his backpack the black and white reproduction of Roy and gave it a long, careful stare before stashing it away. This was the most unreal moment of his life, more unreal than seeing the alien tentacles squiggling around at the end of Furlong's fingers, more unreal than touching Casey in that very private, intimate place that boys were not supposed to touch boys. This was a moment out of time, a jagged tear in the weave of ordinary and rational. He took long breaths, reminded himself that he was not an anxious type but a composed, analytical person who was super-mature for his years. Sure he was volatile these days, but he could handle this.

The waitress must have sensed the urgency of his request; she brought him his vodka almost immediately. He slugged it back before she could get more than a few feet away, the harsh liquor burning painfully in his empty stomach. "Wait," he gasped.

She turned, raising her brows at the empty glass. "Another?"

"No, I'd like a beer...what do you have on tap?"

"Keith's, Samuel Adams, Guiness, Carlsberg, Heineken, London's Pride, Amstel, Becks..."

He stopped her. "I'll have a pint of Heineken...and a menu please."

"You got it, hon."

The vodka was rapidly working its magic; he could feel the first embrace of it all down his spine, and he sighed with pleasure as the tension was alleviated. Ah, he was getting brave now...more brave every second. Brave like Casey Connor. Meanwhile, all the emotion had been stowed somewhere temporarily inaccessible, where it would have to stay for now.

The door opened, possibly not for the first time since Zeke had come in and he kicked himself for having fallen down in his efforts to watch it. There was a tall man standing there who, at a distance, seemed to match the photo Zeke had printed. He was wearing a creamy wool overcoat that probably cost as much as Zeke's entire tuition for the winter semester. His hair was shorter than in the picture but it was a dark brown and his features fit, yes, he was...an older Hugh Grant above the neck...

With Sasha's description reverberating in his brain, Zeke tried to stare without appearing to stare. The man had shrugged off his coat to reveal a designer suit, probably Armani or some such. He was coming towards Zeke with a tentative, perfectly straight, perfectly white smile, and Zeke was forced to accept that while Roy had been handsome in the photo, he was actually stunning in real life. It might have had something to do with the way that charm simply oozed from the man, making Zeke's body into an instant traitor whose every sense sought to like him.

"Jacob?" Roy asked, taking up a stance at the table but leaving a slight safety margin.

"Donald?" Zeke returned.

A less guarded smile followed. It appeared entirely open and friendly, and it was a shock. It shouldn't have been. Zeke had known a number of monsters, and they were mostly non-sinister in appearance. Indeed, they could be the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

"Call me Roy," said the man, removing his coat and hanging it on the nearest brass hook; it was affixed to the flat, outward-facing end of the booth. He offered to Zeke a hand that was strong yet refined in shape, the fingernails immaculate. "Everyone does."

Zeke shook that hand, half-rising from his seat. He had been worried that he would have trouble touching Roy or otherwise carrying off the charade of a slightly fawning, aspiring journalist, but somehow it was easy. "Thank you for meeting me."

"Oh, no, it's my pleasure." Roy's attentive eyes executed a quick pass over Zeke, all the way down and all the way up but so quickly and subtly a person might have thought they missed it. A tiny smile appeared on the full lips.

As Roy sat down, the waitress reappeared with Zeke's beer in a pint-sized, frosty mug, and the menu that was nothing more than a page with text printed on both sides and laminated. "Good evening, Roy," she said.

"How are you tonight, Meg?"

"Can't complain, can't complain." The young woman toyed with her hair self- consciously, her cheeks pinking obviously even in the subdued light. "What can I get you?"

"My usual, please." Roy gestured at the menu with his eyebrows. "Are you getting something to eat?"

"Yeah." In fact, Zeke was now so hungry that he was almost sick to his stomach. Tossing down that vodka certainly hadn't helped the situation. Quickly, he scanned the plastic card. "I'll have the assorted appetizer platter and then a Flanagan's burger with everything."

Roy chuckled; it sent a frisson of something down Zeke's spine that he was appalled to recognize as pleasurable. He couldn't figure out what the fuck was going on here. He hadn't expected to ever be attracted to another man apart from Casey, and certainly not this man...even if this man was so handsome it should have been illegal, and bore the tantalizing smell of some musky, spicy aftershave. Casey never wore aftershave. In fact, Casey didn't shave. "You're hungry, huh? Can I share your appetizers?"

"Sure, I guess."

"I'll have the chicken and honey-mustard grill as well, Meg."

The woman nodded and took up the menu.

"And this'll be on me," Roy added lightly.

"Oh, no," Zeke protested. "That's not necessary."

"Maybe not, but humour me anyway."

"But you're the one doing me a favour here."

"Yes, but I know how it is for students. Let me get it, Jake...do you mind if I call you Jake?"

And Roy touched him, just briefly grasping his wrist where it lay on the table.

"It's okay," Zeke mumbled, surrendering simultaneously to both the touch and Roy's intention to pay the bill. Zeke — or Jake — was supposed to be a student, after all. "But I would have ordered a steak if I had known you were buying."

Roy laughed. Zeke grinned back and slurped his Heineken.

"I'm curious," Roy said. "How did you happen to know of me?"

"I read a piece in the Enquirer...about the new exhibition."

"Oh, yes, of course. So you're a student at U of C?"

"Yes," Zeke answered. Now that he was warmed up everything was coming easily. He had Mr. Perfectly-Turned-Out Roy Windle gazing intently at him, lapping up his lies — fuck but it felt good to make a dupe of him even if he didn't know it was happening. Especially because he didn't know it was happening. "Third year."

"Are you from Cincinnati?"

"No...I grew up in a smaller place a few hours away."

"I see." Roy made a wistful face and sighed, "I miss being in school."

"How long has it been?"

"This is the first year I haven't been a student since age five. I was going for my Ph.D., you know."

"Right...I think I read that."

"Huh. Thank god for the Internet or we'd all be anonymous," Roy commented, his mouth twitching.

Meg had returned. She placed some sort of fruity looking drink in a wide- brimmed, delicate-stemmed glass on the table in front of Roy. "Here you go, Roy."

Roy treated Meg to a bit of a leer, which she seemed to receive with considerable satisfaction. "Thanks, baby," he said, and she walked away almost panting. While this was going on, Zeke dug out a pen and the new notebook, flipping it open to the first, blank page. "Oh, are we starting the interview now?" Roy wondered.

"Only if you feel comfortable..."

"Oh, but I love talking about me!" Roy exclaimed. It was wistful and utterly engaging, with just the right twinge of something regretful. As each minute passed, it was becoming less of a stretch for Zeke to consider that all this time Roy had been getting a worse rap than he really deserved. Perhaps, as Sasha had once suggested, Roy had been seduced to the dark side by Casey himself. Perhaps there had been a day when Roy felt himself drowning in Casey and no one was around to help him out of the water.

Zeke only realized he hadn't spoken some time when Roy's voice intruded. "What are you thinking about, Jake?"

Taking a risk, Zeke said, "Actually...I'm thinking that I don't really feel like taking notes just yet. I'd rather chat."

"If that's how you want to do it," Roy replied, sounding disinterested. "But you know that I will need to see the piece before it goes anywhere?"

"Of course."

"You must have a good memory."

"Very good. I might want to write down a few specifics, though...like your age."

Roy shrugged. "I turned thirty this year."

Zeke dutifully wrote that down, keeping up the pretense. "Did you have a big party?"

"Just five hundred of my closest friends," Roy replied. Again, there was that hint of bitterness.

"It wasn't your choice to do it that way."

"No, it was — my wife."

"Janice?"

"Yes."

Zeke took a breath, plunged. "I thought you were divorced."

"Not in June I wasn't. Is this relevant to your article?"

"Probably not." Zeke nursed his beer for a few seconds, then met Roy's eyes squarely. His brows had the ability to take on rather fascinating shapes. "I'm just interested."

"You want to know about my scandalous marital history? All right...my wife sued me for divorce a few months back. I didn't contest it, seeing as I'm gay and I only married her because our families wanted it. Is that enough dirt for you?"

"You're out, then?" Zeke asked the question casually but the part of him that wasn't entirely committed to his role as Jake was shaking his head in disbelief. Everything he knew of Roy exclaimed that he would do anything — do all the anythings that he had supposedly done to Casey — out of his ferocious need to keep his sexuality a secret. Zeke wondered what Casey would smash when he learned that Roy had let his penchant for boys get out in the open.

"Quite. In the past few months I've begun to bring male friends with me to events."

Zeke nodded. "I saw some pictures."

The platter of appetizers had arrived, bearing little piles and rows of deep- fried goodness. Zeke bided his time about continuing with the interview, thoroughly enticed by the smell of grease. He started with a fried mushroom and then, at the input from his mouth and stomach, his brain blanked out. For the next minute he was mainly caught up by eating.

"Does it make you uncomfortable?" Roy asked him suddenly.

"What?"

"My being gay."

"No," Zeke replied, licking his fingers. He shrugged. "Sorry if I got quiet there...I'm just starving."

Roy chuckled. "Like any proper student." He helped himself to a wing, somehow managing to be fastidious about eating it. "You know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think you're much more interested in me being gay than me being a photographer. I think that's what you really want to talk about...because you have a personal investment."

Zeke washed down a mouthful of food. His adrenaline level was almost off the charts by now, and with the disinhibiting assistance of the alcohol he was feeling absolutely fearless. "Meaning what?"

"Meaning...you're into he's, not she's. Am I right?"

"I like he's and she's."

"Of course," Roy smirked. "Yeah, I'm bisexual too."

"I'll say I'm gay if you want, I don't care one way or another...but I really do like women."

Roy lifted his glass and his brows simultaneously. Gazing directly into Zeke's eyes, he licked his lips as though the drink had only made him more thirsty.

Zeke scrambled for a question that was substantive; he was supposed to be doing an interview here, after all. "I'm curious about what it's like for you in the business world. I mean, since you came out has it been... do people give you a hard time?"

"You'd be surprised by how polite people are, actually."

"What about working with all those crusty old men in business?"

"I can definitely feel a chill at times. Once or twice someone refused to do business with me, but mostly it's just a feeling of discomfort." Roy's mouth quirked. "It hasn't affected our stock any."

"Was that a surprise?"

"Which part?"

"That people are so...well, tolerant."

"Some are just barely tolerant...but yeah, it was a bit." Roy mused, "Maybe my expectations of people were too low. Maybe they've always been too low, actually. I've known I was gay for a long time and, obviously, I tried to hide it. Well, I tried to hide it from my father."

"And he died recently."

Roy looked sharply at Zeke. "Yes."

"And it was after that that you came out."

"You trying to be Barbara Walters, Jake?"

"Maybe."

"I don't want this stuff in the article."

"So it won't be," Zeke said dismissively. He saw that this had not placated Roy any and leaned in, saying, "Look, I have my father issues, too. And I'll be honest — when I figured out I was gay, I didn't take it as well as I would have hoped."

Roy's expression softened. "You always thought you didn't care about sexual preference and suddenly you were one of them... Were you disappointed in yourself?"

"Yeah."

"Me too." Roy sighed. "All right, since we're just two queers having a heart- to-heart...I don't think that I could have come out while my father was still alive. I'm not proud of it, but there it is. He was a rabid homophobe and I didn't want him to hate me."

"I understand," Zeke said softly.

"You know...I think you do."

It was a moment. He was having a frigging moment with Roy. This couldn't be happening...no, this was not genuine accord, it didn't mean anything. He was just an actor right now playing a part, and he was a lot better actor than he'd known. He wouldn't be able to get Roy where he wanted him if he couldn't give the impression of being at least friendly. Rather than be alarmed that the camaraderi was coming more easily than it should have, he should just be glad that in public, Roy was sociable, likeable, even insightful.

Roy shook himself and said, "Hey, we're too serious now. Go on, eat. Take a break from homework."

Eating was the part of the performance that was a total breeze. Zeke took a wing and said, "So do you come here often?" Roy smirked at the line, and feeling himself blush, Zeke added, "I just noticed that they seem to know you."

"Yeah, I'm here at least a couple of times a week. I met Allan here."

"Allan?"

"My — the person I'm seeing right now, and he's going to be calling any second to find out where I am."

"I'm sorry if I'm ruining your plans..."

"Oh, no, not at all. We didn't have anything planned for tonight, but we're going to Vegas tomorrow."

"That's cool."

"Yeah, it is."

"How long are you going for?"

"Just for the weekend. So how about you, are you seeing anyone?"

This time the anger was a sudden but very welcome ambush, incinerating the cozy feelings of a moment ago. He wanted to stand up and blast Roy with his wrath but he slammed down on that and replied briefly, "Yeah, I'm seeing someone."

Roy started to say something but fell silent as Meg showed up with the burger and the chicken sandwich. "Can I get you boys another round?" she said, nodding at the almost empty glass and mug. Zeke noticed that the pub had been filling steadily as he and Roy talked, and the noise level was rising. He wondered what people saw when they looked at this booth in the corner. Two men picking each other up? His feelings about that were ambivalent to be sure, but far better that than the actuality: One man conning and luring another man to some more private situation where he could crucify him at his leisure. These unwanted waves of attraction had to be the product of some inverse, perverse identification between him and his target.

"Another?" Roy inquired of Zeke, who nodded agreement. "Yeah, we'll have two more of the same," he told Meg, wagging his eyebrows first at her, then at Zeke. He had a habit of appearing to be amused. It didn't come across as mean-spirited, not that Zeke had seen. It was just a gift for giving the impression of mild delight and interest in everything that a person did. Zeke could imagine how a person who was especially vulnerable could be taken over by that facade of character.

"So..." Zeke murmured. He had two hands wrapped around his burger. Taking a large bite, he closed his eyes to savour the juices filling his mouth. "Mmm...this is good."

"I have to tell you, Jake, this is different from any interview I've ever done."

"How's that?" Zeke mumbled.

"It feels more like a date...a date with a guy who just asks very pointed questions."

The shiver that went through Zeke was pure, sexual reaction. It seized his body and horrified him, beginning in his face, travelling down his spine and settling heavily in his crotch. It had to be a mistake. It wasn't like Roy was all that attractive; he was quite appealing and charismatic but certainly not irresistible. Zeke had encountered plenty of attractive men before and none of them had inspired the least bit of a tingle. "Well," he said, heart thrumming, skin prickling. "It's not a date."

"How do you know?"

"Because we're both with someone else...and it is an interview. We journalists have these things called ethics."

Roy smiled at this. "Ah, yes...ethics." He picked up his sandwich and took a bite. A dribble of greasy juice rolled out and fell on his expensive tie. "Oh, fuck it!" Roy exclaimed, brushing at it without much exertion. "I'm afraid that's done for." He unknotted and removed the tie right there, opening his shirt at the collar and letting the tie slide crumpled onto the seat beside him. Zeke caught a glimpse of a golden, smooth upper chest, and a thick heat began pooling in his groin.

"Hey, Jake...do they offer a refresher course in ethics at your school?"

Fuck. Roy was seeing him... seeing him seeing. Zeke quickly hooked a stare on one of the quasi-historic framed photos plastered to the wall amongst the vintage signs and various, old-world junk. A bunch of guys who looked like they had just gotten off work at the coal-mines grinned and lifted their mugs.

Around a mouthful of his sandwich, Roy said idly, "Why don't you ask me some more questions?"

"Okay...um..." It was tough to think with blood flowing in the wrong direction. "Who are your favourite photographers?"

"That's the best you can do?"

"Give me a break," Zeke retorted. "I'm trying to eat here."

"All right," Roy laughed. "I guess my favourite would have to be Annie Lebowitz. I also like Ansel Adams...pretty much all the famous ones."

"So you prefer black and white?"

Roy raised his brows, acknowledging Zeke as reasonably well-informed. "That's right. My own work is almost all black and white portraits, actually. But if you saw my stuff on the university site you probably know that, huh?"

"Yeah."

"You know..." Roy toyed with the stem of his glass. "I have some portraits at my apartment that you should see."

Zeke had to breathe carefully lest this entire enterprise slip away from him. He couldn't believe that Roy was being this blatant. Not that it was unwelcome; he'd walked into this situation hoping that some sort of opportunity would arise to get Roy alone and he'd been anticipating making some sort of overture himself. Yet here was Roy once again taking control of the encounter. "Um..." Zeke said, not wanting to come across as too eager while at the same time fighting down his instinctive desire to refuse this man his company. He scrambled for a distraction. "Um...so...so how did you end up running the family business if you want to be an artist?"

Roy sipped his drink and frowned. "Is that really what you want to say?"

"Yeah. It is."

"All right." Roy made a face of exaggerated reflection, pursing his lips. "How did I end up doing this? Well, it's simple. My father died."

"But you didn't have to follow in his footsteps, did you?"

For the first time it seemed he'd thrown Roy off his game. With a marked lack of poise, Roy answered, "I guess I didn't, but he always had this expectation of me...I felt it was something I owed to him. Or maybe that strikes you as lame."

It did, although Zeke wasn't going to say it. He would never be a lawyer because of his father — or be anything because of his father, for that matter. He was the master of his own destiny. "Not at all."

"Really."

"Yeah...I think it's cool."

"Thank you."

"You know...there's another question I wanted to ask. Officially, I mean."

"Which is?"

"Is it possible to be a banker and an artist at the same time?"

Roy laughed deep in his chest, attracting attention from all corners of the room. "I'm not a banker...but I'd have to say yes."

"Do you still take photographs, then?"

"Not...not in the last several months, but you know, it's been a real learning curve for me, doing this job. I'm just starting to feel more comfortable with it so I think I'll have more free time soon."

"Do you enjoy it?"

Roy paused. A faint smile crept across his face and he admitted, "Not really, no. And if you want to know the truth, I'm not really qualified to do it either. I never studied business and I'm not particularly interested in what the market's doing and how to leverage the leveraging and all that shit. I've learned quite a bit but I really intend to rely more and more on my vice presidents as time goes on, so I can do more of what I enjoy while still keeping my hand in." The smile turned sardonic. "I'll bet you're not impressed with that, are you?"

"Not really."

"That's okay. I know there are people a lot more talented than I am who have to do real jobs and never have the time or the freedom to do what they love. So yeah, it's possible to be a business person and putter around as an artist but maybe it's only because I'm stinking rich. I'm a privileged bastard and I know it. "

"Well," Zeke remarked, trying to think of something to say that didn't give away any of his intense dislike at that moment.

"You don't have to comment, Jake, I know how I sound. But at least the money's good for something. I've very keen about the Windle Family Trust, I won't be letting that slide. The fact is, our society doesn't place enough value on certain things...mostly the things that really matter. That's why I'm going to give all I can to the arts. I know it's no solution but it's a start." With an expression of satisfaction, Roy capped this speech by draining his glass. Setting it down, "Do you think that's sufficient for the interview, Jake?"

"I suppose."

"Good — because I'd like to just talk now. Is there someplace that you need to be?"

"No."

"Excellent. Then will you stay and have another drink with me?"

"I guess I could do that." Zeke looked down at the remains of his hamburger. Nervous anticipation had just filled what was left of the gap in his stomach. He pushed the plate a bit to the side.

Signalled by Roy's crooked finger, Meg showed up to remove the remains of their food. She brought back another round and Zeke had to caution himself. Each one of these pints was like two bottles of beer, and it wasn't the watery, domestic stuff either. He was already feeling far more laid back than he probably should have been under the circumstances.

While Zeke was resolving that this would have to be his last drink for the night, Roy put an elbow on the table and appeared to be about to speak — just as his phone rang. Frowning an apology at Zeke, he answered.

"Oh, hi, baby...sorry, I had an after hours meeting...a reporter...just for a student magazine...Allan, I'm pretty tired. I'm going to wrap this up then go home and get rested for tomorrow...so I'll see you tomorrow...yeah, it's going to be great, baby."

Roy snapped his phone closed with a sigh.

"Why Vegas?" Zeke asked, genuinely wanting to know. It wasn't a place he'd ever thought about visiting.

"Oh, just because. We've never been there and he really wanted to go. He likes all that gaudy shit."

"But not you?"

"I suppose I like the extravagance of the whole place."

"You don't seem like a very extravagant guy to me."

"Thanks..." Roy grinned acknowledgment of the remark. "No, I'm not really extravagant, not in any obvious way at least. I have my areas of excess...but I suppose I've always been something of a geek."

"You're not a geek. I know geeks and you're not a geek."

"Thanks," Roy said. By some trick of the light, his eyes appeared to sparkle. "So...Jake. Do you mind if I ask you some questions about you now?"

"Turnabout?" Zeke suggested, steadying himself for it.

"Exactly."

"Okay, shoot... Do you mind if I smoke?

"Go ahead."

Zeke could feel Roy's eyes on him as he fumbled out a smoke and stuck it under his lip. Patting himself down in search of his lighter, he was startled when Roy's hand appeared in front of him along with an engraved, silver lighter. "Let me," Roy said softly. Zeke darted a look at him and saw that the older man was conveying more than the one kind of heat.

Avoiding the eyes across from him, Zeke didn't protest.

As he sat back Roy asked smugly, "How long have you been out?"

"Less than a year," Zeke replied, and smoked with great commitment.

"Really? You don't strike me as the type of guy who'd be in denial."

"I wasn't, exactly. I like women...but I met this person and fell in love with him...so that was that."

Roy raised his brows. "Wow. Just that easy, huh?"

"Hell, no. I fought it for a while." With his free hand, Zeke took a judicious taste of his beer. "Like I said, I'm not very proud of that. But I'm okay with who I am now."

"That's cool." Roy traced the rim of his glass and licked his finger. The motion was far more erotic than it had a right to be. "You seem pretty together."

"Believe me, I'm not."

"I'm sure you're more together than you think you are. I'll bet you're darned near perfect, in fact." Roy tilted his head back; he stared up at the ceiling before lowering his head with a sigh. Zeke was fascinated by how everything the man did contrived to be watchable. "Not like me. I've done some awful things, totally out of control things."

"Things that you're sorry for?"

"Of course," Roy snapped, staring at Zeke. For a moment something angry, perhaps even menacing, glittered in his eyes. Then it faded and he said, "Like for instance, I'm going to ask you to come back to my apartment with me in a little while, even though I'm with someone and you're practically a stranger."

"Do you always cheat on your boyfriend?"

"'Cheat'...sounds so middle class." Roy touched Zeke's hand for the second time that night. "Cards on the table, baby. The truth is, you're not my usual type at all, but there's something about you. Maybe it just boils down to incredible hotness. I'd like you to come home with me so we can have a good time and go our respective ways tomorrow — you to write your little assignment, me to Vegas. Yeah, I'm going to lie to my boyfriend but it wouldn't be the first time, and it won't be the last. What do you say?"

Zeke just smoked for a count of five.

"I could go for that," he replied, careful not to sound too pleased with himself.

 

Roy's apartment comprised the entire top floor of a more-than-one-hundred years old building, in a neighbourhood that was one mansion after another, interspersed with palatial townhouses. While the exterior of the building was heavily traditional — worked from stone and crusted with heavy flourishes, even guarded by a security man in a gilt-piped uniform — the interior of Roy's home had been transformed into ultra-contemporary. From the doorway Zeke could see most of it and the theme was monochrome; the furniture and walls were white, with very few colour accents. A lot of the decorative touches were in glass. The only exceptions to the rule were the large, framed photographs that were hung on the walls. The frames were black and the mattes white, making for a stark but striking effect.

"My not-so-humble abode," Roy said as he showed Zeke in and took his coat. "Only for when I'm staying in the city, of course. My house is out in the country. What do you think?"

"It's, um...nice."

Roy laughed. "Don't flatter me or anything."

"It's fine." Zeke caught a glimpse of a large terrace off the living room. It had to be spectacular in summer. Right now it looked forlorn and a bit icy, dotted with potted shrubs that had been wrapped for the winter.

"Interior design's not one of your interests, huh?"

Zeke's eyes had moved to one of the nearby framed photos, hanging in the hallway. It was a headshot of an old man, and if it had been in a gallery, Zeke wouldn't have thought to distinguish it from the work of a professional. Of course, art wasn't his forte. "This is your work?" he said, gesturing to the picture.

"All of it, with a few exceptions."

"I like it."

It was then that Zeke noticed Roy's stare. It was a gaze of growing demand, an acquisitive, hot expression that stopped just short of vulgar. "I'm looking at another work of art, right now," Roy said quietly.

Zeke couldn't help it; he laughed. It was nerves, it was surprise, and it was the ridiculousness of the comment — of the whole situation.

Roy must have had no experience of insecurity, for he just raised his brows and wondered, "A bit too precious?"

"Just a bit."

"Let's try a different approach..."

Roy Windle was making his move. He was gliding in, intent upon Zeke's lips. Standing absolutely in place, Zeke seemed to have no shortage of time in which to decide what he was going to do. There was the bewildering attraction he had felt and there was curiosity...but what about that attraction? It made no fucking sense to be attracted to a smooth-talking asshole who was so entirely loathsome to him. And what about Casey — yeah, what about him? What would it feel like to commit the same crime? What did it feel like to be Casey knowing he had been with a person that he didn't want to be with, just to make some kind of point —

There was a pressure on his lips and an invitation and Zeke was frozen, not quite resisting and not quite participating, experiencing something the same as what he had known, but utterly different. Something that tasted new...that tasted like revenge. Okay, perhaps it wasn't right but it could be right enough...no, it wasn't right, and...Um, hello, Zekie boy, what are we doing? This is Roy trying to kiss you, this is Roy... nuzzling his neck wrong and the...fuck...the tongue flicking against his ear...all of it wrong.

Zeke evaded Roy's next attempt, shifting back and away. He closed his eyes and willed his cock down.

Soon he was cognizant of the fact that Roy was gazing at him in open surprise at finding himself thwarted. Well, not thwarted so much as having just been unacknowledged. Zeke was pretty sure that was something that had never happened to Roy before.

"Sorry," he said. "I'm having...an...an attack of guilt."

"It's all right, it'll pass," Roy said, still seeming puzzled. "How about we have a drink and relax for a bit?"

"Sure."

"You wanted to see my work, right?"

Zeke didn't recall saying that but he nodded anyway.

"Check out the study. Some of my best stuff is in there...I'll get you a drink. What would you like?"

"Oh...whatever you're having."

Zeke went down the hall to the door that Roy had indicated. With an antique wood desk and shelves filled with books, this room was somewhat warmer than the rest of the apartment. One wall was hung with a series of three images. As he approached them Zeke was barely paying attention, drawn instead to the bookshelves — until, for a second time in the same night, he exclaimed out loud in shock.

Casey was here, in Roy's study.

In the photo he was sitting or kneeling with his head slightly averted, gazing up towards the right of the frame with a beseeching expression. Roy had caught his face at a most serendipitous angle, while the absence of colour had forced his hair and his eyes to become various shades of darkness. To view it was to contemplate a person seized in a state of complete exposure, the photographer mercilessly offering a glimpse of the subject's world, a place that had to be chaotic and frightening but compelling. It was as though one could, as they took in the photo, feel the obsession of the photographer — to the extent that they shared in the watcher's sadism, drawn to an aesthetic of suffering. Implicated in the moment, they would not come to the subject's rescue.

Zeke vaguely heard Roy come up behind him. He stayed in place, staring at the photo, at Casey captured in a rectangular frame. Wordlessly, Roy handed Zeke a tumbler full of some kind of golden liquor, and they stood side by side gazing at Casey's image.

"Did you take this?" Zeke asked.

"Yes."

"Who is he?"

Roy answered, "He's someone I was seeing for a while. A student at the university. Beautiful, don't you think?"

"I was thinking that you must be a very good photographer."

"I'm not bad but what you're seeing is just him." Roy, it seemed, was far from having grown tired of looking at Casey; he was staring, unbashed. "He's even better in real life, that's what I always tell people when they comment on this picture. Almost everyone who comes in here notices it. I've had buyers in here asking to purchase him but I can't give him up."

Zeke's crisis of ten minutes ago had vanished. He knew exactly why he was here and he was so infuriated that he could have done murder — or at least serious physical harm. For two years Roy had kept Casey hidden and refused to let the world know about their relationship. For two years he made Casey think that he was nothing, that he didn't really exist. Zeke had expected to find Roy pining and seething in secret. Instead, Roy was going out in public with this Allan, among others, and he proudly displayed Casey's captive image to anyone who happened by the apartment.

"He looks really young," Zeke forced out. His jaw ached, he was clenched so tight.

"Ah..." Roy coughed. "I was a bad boy, I'm afraid. He was one of my students."

"Huh." Zeke didn't dare try to say more.

"But I swear, I never forced him to do anything."

Now it had come, the moment when his feelings became uncontainable. His hands were knotted, his throat working as he struggled not to ruin everything by performing an unscheduled evisceration.

Roy had to have seen his emotional upheaval, even in profile. He asked Zeke, "Are you okay?"

"I was wondering..." Zeke heard himself sounding tinny and loud. "Does he know that you have him hanging here?"

Rather than respond immediately, Roy took a long swallow of his whiskey. When he did answer, his voice suggested some anger but more curiosity — like it never had occurred to him that anyone would find offence in having their picture on display without their knowledge. "He knew I took the photo, obviously — but to answer your question, no, he does not know and he's unlikely to. I'm never going to see him again and I'm never going to sell him. He'll just stay here for my private enjoyment and it won't hurt him any. Frankly, I don't know why you're getting your shorts in a knot over this."

Hearing Roy admit that he would never see Casey again held some soothing power. Zeke was able to force his eyes off Casey, to look at Roy and speak more or less normally. "You don't think that there's anything wrong with it?"

Roy massaged the area around his mouth once, delicately, like he wanted to be sure that he wasn't foaming inadvertently. "I don't think there's any harm in it, no."

"No, you wouldn't, would you. I'm sure it never occurred to you. In fact — " Zeke took a step in Roy's direction, closing the distance. It was just a little closer than friendly. "I doubt you that you ever ask yourself if anything's right or wrong before you do it."

"What is this?" Roy had forced his head back a few inches but otherwise didn't give up any ground. "I thought the interview was over."

"I just want to know."

A sly smile crept over Roy's face. "You're a strange man. Are you about to show your true colours? Accuse me of being a rich bastard, beat me up or something?"

Zeke snorted. "Like beating you up would make any difference."

"But I see the way you're looking at me. Why did you come up here if you have all this contempt?"

"Contempt isn't the word."

"What is it, then?"

"A kind of amazement. I'm trying to imagine how you justify you to yourself and I can't figure it out."

Roy's eyes widened. "You don't know me," he said. "All I've done, that you know of, is ‘cheat' on my boyfriend. Lots of people do it...including you, baby."

"But you've done a lot more than that," Zeke pressed.

Roy just stood there for a moment, rooted to the floor while Zeke speculated as to the emotions and thoughts chasing each other in his head. If nothing else it must have dawned on him that this encounter was not what he had imagined and that it was in his best interest to end it quickly. He held out his hand, reaching for the empty glass that Zeke was still holding while saying, "With all due respect, Jake, you're a lovely male creature and I was really hoping to fuck you but now I think you're probably a bit too insane. I'd like for you to go."

Zeke pushed it into Roy's hand with considerable force, enough that the slap of glass against flesh was audible. "You've done a lot more than lie," he reiterated, beginning to choke a bit on his words as everything he'd been keeping in check throttled speech. "Tell me — what you did."

"You know, I'm pretty sure I've asked you to leave — "

"Tell me what else you did to him." Zeke jerked a thumb at Casey on the wall. "Besides put him on your wall without his permission. What else did you do without his permission?"

Abruptly Roy fell silent. "Who are you?" he asked, almost whispering.

"Consider me your priest."

"I don't do confessions." Roy was staring at Zeke. "Did we meet before and I don't remember?"

"No."

"Then who are you?" Roy had been holding his body like it was all he could do to not bolt, but before Zeke's eyes he steadied, the trembling dissipating as his habitual smirk reasserted itself. A few steps took Roy to his desk, where he placed the two glasses he was holding. As he did this he must have been ruling out possibilities, for he abruptly spun to face Zeke and said, "You're here because of Casey, you must be his friend...his boyfriend maybe?"

"Maybe."

"And your real name?"

"If you know I'm his boyfriend then you know who I am."

"Oh, hardly!" Roy said, waving an arrogant hand. "I do remember him mentioning some dumb jock in Herrington who was leading him on — but you wouldn't do that, would you?"

Zeke had come too far to be goaded into losing control. "Say my name," he returned evenly. "Say it now."

"Okay, Zeke, " Roy admitted. "Well, good for you. You sucked me right in. So are you going to kill me now, or just beat the crap out of me?"

Zeke unclenched hands that had been balled at his sides. "Neither."

"You've set all this up but you don't want to hurt me?"

"Oh, I didn't say that."

Roy smirked knowingly.

"I would love to hurt you," Zeke continued. "I've fantasized about making you bleed more times than I can count — but that wouldn't really satisfy me." He shrugged and folded his arms to disguise how hard he was shaking. "Also, I won't be of much use to Casey if I'm in jail."

"Well, aren't you a cool customer," Roy drawled.

"I'm not cool. I'm pretty fucking far from cool. I'm under control right now and I don't intend to touch you, but if I were you I would watch what I say."

A sneer materialized, shaped out of the fear on Roy's face. "Threatening me now, are you?"

"No. Just warning you."

"So what do you want?"

Zeke took a bit of time to breathe before committing himself to a very deep dive. "Just what we've been doing," he answered, at length.

"Meaning what?"

"I mean I want to ask questions and get answers. Just consider this an extension of the interview, but this time you have to tell the one hundred per cent truth."

"I do, do I?"

"Yes."

"And why is that?"

"Because if you don't, I'll go to the police and the media tomorrow and tell them that you sexually assaulted a boy who was ten years younger than you, someone who also happened to be your student."

Roy didn't do anything but blink, and Zeke was unwillingly impressed by his ability to take a hit and come back swinging. "Sexual assault," Roy scorned. "What are you going on about?"

"The Best Western in Herrington, Park Avenue. August twenty-third."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about you and Casey — and Janice — in a bed, doing things that Casey didn't want."

Yeah, Roy was good — but not that good. "You wouldn't," he said. He was mostly calm, but Zeke did not miss the rising tide of colour in his face.

"I promise you, I would."

"You wouldn't do that to Casey."

"Let me tell you something about me, Roy. I can be a bit of a prick myself. I often make big decisions about Casey's future without consulting him. So ask yourself if I would I sic the press on him or drag him through some court proceeding just to get you. I think you know the answer to that question."

"There would be no proceeding, as you put it," Roy shot back, almost quivering now. "There's no case and even if it did go to trial, you'd lose." Startling Zeke, the man began to move, drifting across the room to lean on his desk. "You'd have put Casey through that for nothing."

"But we both know it's public opinion that concerns you — whether you were convicted or not. And I wonder what would happen to those stocks of yours."

"I know you think I'm pretty hot shit, baby," Roy sneered. "But I'm not a celebrity. People don't care that much what I do."

"You're a celebrity in your little world. Just think if your friends, relatives, your crusty old business associates knew what you'd been up to...or even if they suspected. What do you think would happen to the Windle name then? Your father would just be turning in his grave, wouldn't he — "

"Shut the fuck up," Roy murmured. His eyes had closed at some point during Zeke's last speech. Opening and narrowing them, he asked, "What do you really want? Money? I'll give you a shitload of it if you just go away."

"I don't need money. I told you, I just want to talk. I want you to tell me about you and Casey and I don't want to hear you trying to excuse or justify yourself. I don't want to hear any of that manipulative crap you put in your letter to Casey...yeah, I read it and I know what your bullshit sounds like."

Roy stared at him. "You...you just want to talk."

"I want an honest conversation."

"You do mean a confession, don't you? And when it's over?"

"We go on with our lives...provided that you can satisfy me."

"I was quite prepared to satisfy you when we came up here." Improbably, there was a smile on Roy's lips. "Our Casey has some taste, doesn't he?"

"Some of the time."

"Oh, but look at us both. We're just — "

"Totally different," Zeke broke in. "For one thing, I actually care how Casey feels. And I have this curious habit of treating him like a human being."

He cringed inwardly at his defensive tone even as he finished speaking. Fuck. He had shown weakness and it was unacceptable.

"Wonderful," Roy crooned, not wasting the opportunity. "And I'm sure it's only a matter of time before he throws you over for someone who's not nearly as good to him as you are."

Okay, this was a lesson. Whatever happened, whatever verbal missiles Roy lobbed, Zeke couldn't, mustn't flinch. He must not react. He held himself still, struggling to think of a neutral response.

"Or has it already happened?" Roy intuited, voice soft. "Yes, I think it has."

"Are you going to talk to me or not?" Zeke snapped.

"I don't know. Somehow I don't think you can really do me much damage."

"Then you don't know me very well."

Roy took a while to mull that. At length, he said, "I suppose I'm not surprised that someone showed up to give me hell. I must say I did expect it to be...someone else."

"Like Sasha, maybe?"

Roy blinked. "You know Sasha."

"He lives with us."

"Lives with...?"

"Me and Casey."

"Oh...I see." Instead of being contemptuous or sardonic as Zeke had been expecting, Roy just looked regretful, much as he had been when Zeke was pretending to interview him earlier. "Well, no, I don't see but I'm not really interested in finding out how your little threesome came about. Sounds hot, though."

"Do we have an understanding or not, Roy? This is the last time I'm asking."

Roy uttered a long sigh. "Just remember...you started this."

"I can live with that."

"You may not believe me, Zeke, but it truly was my intention to leave Casey alone. Did you know that he phoned me a while back?"

"Yes."

"I never thought he'd shout at me like that... I was shocked by how bad he sounded — "

"Stop. Right there."

"Why? I only — "

"I don't want to hear that."

"Well, what do you want to hear? And could we maybe go into the living room and sit while we do this?"

Zeke found himself wanting to resist the idea solely on principle, and realizing how ridiculous that was, he agreed. They might as well be sitting — plus, he'd feel easier in his skin without Casey's picture presiding over him. "Okay." As they moved down the spacious hallway, Zeke asked, "Is this the apartment where you and Casey were together?" He tried to imagine Casey rattling miserably about in this frigid space.

"Fuck, no. That apartment was much smaller, a bit more like a student's digs... although I realize I never actually lived like a student."

They had arrived in the living room, which was about the same size as the entire apartment that Zeke lived in. Roy waved at an assemblage of white couches and chairs grouped around a glass and crystal coffee table. "Have a seat." He went to the bar set against one white wall. "Would you like another drink?"

"No, thanks."

"I promise I'm not going to poison you."

"I know. But I don't want one."

With his back to Zeke, Roy shrugged. Moments later he sat down, holding his second tumbler of whiskey and keeping his distance. Zeke saw his hand shake as he lifted it to his mouth.

"I'm curious," Roy said after the first gulp had gone down. "Why didn't you just phone my office and say who you were?"

"Would you have responded?"

"I don't know — yes, I think so. I don't think I could have resisted."

"Would you have responded as quickly?"

"Hmm...no, probably not. And you wouldn't have had the pleasure of dangling bait and watching me grab at it. You liked sitting there in that bar doing chit- chat, knowing who I was while I didn't have a clue about you, didn't you?"

"I wanted to see how you'd behave if you didn't know who I was."

"Oh, but it's more than that, isn't it? You just had to have me under your power, didn't you, Zeke?" Roy downed the rest of his drink all at once, coughing slightly. "So — so what did you think?"

"About what?"

"About me...you said you wanted to see how I'd behave, how did you find me, then?" Roy sloshed the droplets of liquid in the bottom of his glass, studying them.

Zeke considered not answering — but it would probably come across as defensive yet again. "I can see why Casey got drawn in," he answered.

Roy grinned at this, then said in a low voice, "I'm the only man you've ever been attracted to other than Casey, aren't I?"

Profoundly grateful for the instinct that had kept him from responding to Roy's attentions in the hallway, Zeke answered, "Checking out your package doesn't mean I was attracted to you."

"Hmm...are you going to tell Casey about our kiss, I wonder?"

Zeke suddenly didn't care how defensive he might seem. "We didn't have a kiss, and it's time for you to start answering my questions."

Roy smiled a bit more, like he knew something that Zeke didn't. "All right. Can I just ask one more thing, though?"

"What?"

"How is Casey?"

Upon hearing those syllables formed by Roy's lying mouth, Zeke could barely speak for anger. He clenched his hands into fists at his sides. "I — told you to watch yourself."

"I'm not trying to provoke. I really want to know."

"He's been better."

"My poor baby," Roy said softly.

"I suggest you shut up before I hit you."

"Do I not have a right to care?"

"No," Zeke refused, "since your caring seems to have no effect on how you treat people."

"Oh, but we've established that I'm a self-absorbed shit," Roy returned gaily.

"You say that like it's something to be proud of. Do you think it makes you deep and tragic, being so unhappy with your life that you can't control what you do to people?"

This brought about a new kind of smile; Zeke wasn't sure what it signified. "You're quite surprising, Zeke. I hope you realize it."

"I have a proper appreciation of my talents, thank you. Now how about we get down to it?"

Smoothing an imaginary crease in his shirt, Roy said, "By all means, let us ‘get down to it'. Where would you like me to begin?"

"At the beginning, when you and Casey met. And I want to know what you really thought, not what sounds nice and romantic. No bullshit."

"It sounds like you already have your own ideas about it, why should I take the trouble to tell you otherwise?"

"Oh, so you were just going to help him with his homework?"

"I'm going to tell you the truth and you can believe it or not. The first time I saw Casey, it was his face on a poster."

"Poster...?"

"Someone at the campus newspaper must have thought it would be fun to turn Casey into the prank of the week. I don't know how they found out about his alien story, maybe they were flipping through old newspapers and recognized him somehow...anyway, they put his picture on a flyer and plastered it to every flat surface on campus. He was already having a hard time, being away from home for the first time, in a new school and now all of a sudden people were looking at him like he was a nutcase."

"What did they do to him?" Zeke growled.

"I don't know about them doing anything. I just saw that he was in my class and he was so sad...actually, he was heartbreaking and I couldn't help myself. I approached him after class and invited him out for coffee. I only wanted to help — " Roy lifted a hand to forestall Zeke's expression of disbelief " — for about the first five minutes." Smiling a private smile, Roy went on, "Of course I noticed right away how he looked but you're just going to have to accept that for a whole five minutes I had nothing but teacherly intentions towards him."

"And then what?"

"Then...nothing. I wanted to spend time with him, he wanted to spend time with me. We spent time together. Sorry to disappoint you but I didn't have some master plan to seduce and lure him against his will."

"But he was your student."

"Yes, and he was extra super young and innocent, and vulnerable — and that sure the hell made him tempting but I would never have forced him to do anything. He was interested in me too. God, he never wanted to let me out of his sight. He had this way of looking at me..." Roy drew an almost rapturous breath and let it out like he had just achieved release. "...and he thought everything I did was wonderful, everything I said was brilliant or funny...do you have any idea what that feels like, how addictive it is?"

Zeke ignored the last. "But you never felt the least guilt over what you were doing, did you?"

"Oh, I knew how our relationship would be judged — but the person whose opinion really mattered to me was my father. He knew I was gay, but he had that old- fashioned idea that homosexuality is like some sickness...like you can overcome it if you work at it. I had promised him I would never be with another guy. And then Casey blew that promise right out of the water."

"Which you blamed him for."

"No," Roy said, far too quickly. He glanced up at Zeke; he shrugged, admitted, "Okay, I did resent him."

"What difference is there?"

"Huge. I know perfectly well in my head that Casey never made me do anything, that it wasn't his fault..."

"But...?"

Roy shrugged. "But every time I looked at him it was like he stole my will, and of course he never gave a fucking damn what people thought of him. He was so used to being different, he didn't know anything else. He didn't know about my promise to my father...I don't see how he could have, but I just know he wouldn't have cared. He asked me to come out one time, just like that. ‘Try being hated,' he said. I swear, he wanted people to know about us. My father — everyone."

"Did you really think you could keep a promise like that?"

"As stupid as it sounds, yes, I did. I know now that it was impossible but at the time I really thought I could have kept it if Casey hadn't been so...well, if he hadn't been Casey. I do know that I was wrong, you must have read that in the letter. I explained how I was terrified of being found out and that was why I hardly ever went anywhere with him. But he didn't seem to mind as long as I spent time with him."

"Didn't mind?" Zeke echoed in outrage.

Roy shook his head. "Hey, I'm trying to explain what I thought at the time, not justify it. I know he minded, I know it hurt him — but he was no frigging picnic either. He was always so clinging and desperate, it was a real downer. I have enough trouble staying out of the dumps as it is...that's the other reason I avoided him."

Zeke couldn't think of a response to that, other than breaking a few of the freak's nice, white teeth.

"And he did hurt me too, you should know that!" Roy went on, his voice heating. "He showed up at my parents' house one Christmas and pretty much outed me without my permission or even a warning."

Zeke clenched and unclenched his fists, and imagined he was squeezing something that just happened to be a part of Roy's anatomy. "How did he do that?"

"He'd had a bad time with his folks that Christmas so he came looking for me at my home. I had no idea he was coming, he didn't tell me or try to phone me before he showed up. I realized after the fact that he had no idea what he was doing but it didn't matter, the damage was already done — and before you ask what damage, my father took one look at him and knew what was going on. He told me to end it but I couldn't."

Roy leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He ran his hands through the pretty, brown hair, massaging his scalp.

"It got pretty bad after that," he continued, lifting his head. "I kept thinking, just one more time and then I'll tell him but I couldn't do it. I would stay away for days and days, sleep over at Janice's or even stay in a hotel, but then I would be sneaking back to my apartment to see Casey. What I didn't know was that Janice had actually hired someone to watch my building...so she knew to the minute how much time I spent there and when Casey was there...and you have no idea how she could be. At one point I convinced Casey to meet me at my office at school and she showed up there too. She started screaming at Casey and me through the door. We were both naked and of course he did one of his blanking out things so I had to dress him and myself before I could open the door. The whole time she's out there pounding and yelling. When she came in she called him ‘slut' and ‘whore' and told him to leave me alone...and he didn't seem to hear her, so she slapped him. He just stood there and took it, which made her even more angry."

Zeke was on his feet and stalking the room, unable to dignify this crap by sitting still for it. "You fuck," he muttered.

"You'll have to be more specific, Zeke. Which part are you hating me for now?"

"Did it never occur to you to get him some help?"

"Of course."

"But you didn't do anything."

Sincere, shit-brown eyes peered up at Zeke. "I didn't want to believe that he was that bad — "

"You didn't want to think that you made him that bad."

Roy made a fist that trembled in the air for a few instants, then dropped just as suddenly, punching his own upper thigh. "I'm not responsible! I may have done things I regret but I'm not the cause!" He seized on his empty tumbler and checked it like he was hoping to find that it had magically replenished itself. "He was crazy from day one and it just got w — "

"He was not crazy, he never has been — "

"And I suppose you're going to tell me now that there really was an alien invasion."

Zeke countered without hesitation, "Yes, there really was an alien invasion. Casey told the truth about that, but you know what? That's beside the point. The point was that he did need help, a fact that you conveniently ignored so that you could keep fucking him whenever and however you liked."

"I cared about him."

"Oh, right. You cared so much that you had to knock him around and leave lots of bruises...so he couldn't forget how much you cared."

"What — I didn't — "

Positioning himself in front of the couch where Roy was sitting, Zeke let himself loom and hope that Roy got every bit as scared as he fucking deserved. "When I found out about your little hotel visits last summer...it was only because he looked like somebody's chew toy and he couldn't hide it anymore."

"I didn't abuse him...You can't have sex without getting a mark or two."

"You can fucking well try. But you didn't want to try, did you? I saw the outline of your fucking teeth on him, you can't tell me you didn't want that to hurt."

"He likes it rough, Zeke, you know that perfectly well, I'm sure so why don't you get off your high horse!"

Zeke moved into an ominous hover and Roy pressed back against the pristine, white cushions.

"Did he ever ask you to hurt him?" Zeke demanded, nearly shouting. "Or did he just take it so he could be close to you?"

"God, how fucking vanilla are you?"

"Enough that I don't try to use my teeth to carve a collar on someone I ‘care' about — call me boring that way!"

"I do. I call you young and unimaginative. And you're exaggerating."

"What if I told you that the morning after you were done with him I had to take him to the hospital?"

There was a visible impact at last. "You — you mean — but he wasn't in good shape, I know that — that wasn't my doing."

"The doctor thought he'd been sexually assaulted."

Roy blanched. "And...?"

"And he couldn't find anything that would prove it but he knew what he was seeing. He thought I did it, that doctor. He looked at me like I was the kind of creep who would beat on a person half my size and just pass it off as a good time — "

Shaking his head, Roy tried to look away from Zeke.

"Don't you fucking try to evade me," Zeke hissed.

"I'm not...I didn't," Roy muttered. "We just had sex, that's all we did — and you'll get the fuck away from me now, if you please."

Zeke eased back no more than an inch. "He was fucking traumatized, you fuck. He still is."

Roy suddenly slammed his empty glass down on the hard wood floor; Zeke heard it break. He leaned over and said, almost in Roy's face, "Now you're going to tell me what happened in that hotel room. Everything. I want you to tell me just how much you wanted to hurt him and just how you did it."

Raising a shuddering hand, Roy scrubbed at his eye. "You want me to lie."

"No, I want to hear the truth that you haven't dared to admit to yourself, you cowardly piece of shit. Come on, I'll help you get started...Casey belonged to you, right? Even if you had dumped him to make Janice happy and he'd gone home, he still belonged to you — "

"Sasha."

"Huh?"

"Sasha forced me to dump him."

"Okay, whatever... Then Sasha made you say it was over but you knew that it was definitely not over, didn't you? Casey was yours and whatever you did to him he'd still come back for more."

"That's right — he — needed me — "

"And you needed him so bad, didn't you? Without him there was nothing in your life that was truly yours."

"Yes," Roy mumbled.

"And no one else should have him."

"That's fucking right!" Roy shouted, startling Zeke into taking a step back. The backs of his calves encountered the coffee table and he almost overbalanced. "In fact, when I saw him in Herrington I suggested to him that no one else seemed interested in him and I'll tell you, I didn't have very much trouble convincing him."

Once again Zeke took to pacing the living room. It was either that or get bloodstains all over the nice, white furniture. "How did Janice end up in that room?" he asked as he measured the distance from one wall to another.

"She was kind of obsessed with me — Casey, too, in a bizarre way. She found out that I'd been going to Herrington and confronted me about it. She ordered me to stop going there." Roy made a face to suggest the type of scorn that must have greeted Janice's demand. "Naturally, I refused."

"Naturally," Zeke echoed.

"I left and went to meet Casey...the last thing I expected was that she'd just follow me."

"How do you mean, follow you?"

"I mean she showed up at the hotel later. She just showed up, she told them she was my wife and of course they were happy to give her the room number. I'm sure she thought to find Casey and me together but he'd already gone. Janice and I fought, she wanted me to come home and never see Casey again. I said I was going to stay there and wait for him like I promised. Then she used the ‘D' word and it just escalated — "

"'D' word?"

"Divorce."

"Oh." Zeke couldn't comprehend why Roy would be so scared of losing someone he didn't want to be with, but he wasn't about to engage in discussion about it.

"It got to the point that she told me if I wanted to have Casey why didn't he just come and live with us, that way she'd know where I was at all times. I told her maybe we should all sleep in the same bed too. I didn't expect her to take me up on it. She said, then you convince him or never see him again. I'm sure she thought he wasn't even going to show that night. But then he did show up — "

Which would have been right after the disaster that had been Delilah's birthday party and Zeke's "coming out", but he wasn't about to share that.

"— and he'd been completely fucked over by someone before he got to me. I guess you'll have to tell me about that. He was hysterical. Worse than hysterical. I tried to calm him down — "

"I don't want to hear about anything kind that you did."

Roy folded his arms and rolled his eyes. "All right, then... I wasn't kind, I'm never kind, I never do anything in the least bit decent and I only tried to calm him down so that I could persuade him to get naked with Janice and me. I got her to leave and then, by god, I fucked him so good, so sweet — "

"What did he say?" Zeke choked, coming to a dead halt in the centre of the living room. His hands itched. His skin was crawling with rage and disgust.

"Say?"

"When he realized what you wanted...with Janice."

"He said no at first. He was very clear about what he didn't want — hell, I'm not sure he even knows what to do with a woman."

"If you don't...I'll...so help me, I'll hurt you if you don't stop."

"Okay, total truth then," Roy said, with a complete absence of remorse, or even interest. "He knew what he didn't want and he didn't want Janice. He told me in no uncertain terms. I sent Janice away so I could change his mind...do you want to hear this blow by blow?"

"I want to know what you did to change his mind."

"You mean how I peeled his clothes off and had him with his face in the pillows and his ass in the air and how he wanted it so much he practically vacuumed the cum out of me?"

Zeke took a step towards the prick before he could stop himself. Just one step, and just one lovely fantasy of Roy crying and begging for mercy while his blood ran freely onto the polished hardwood. He ground out the words: "Are you trying to die?"

Roy opened his mouth. Closed it. "No," he said, unexpectedly subdued.

Zeke tilted his head, scrounging for a hurtful comment in lieu of bloodshed. "You really despise yourself, don't you?"

The older man looked quickly at Zeke. "Don't you dare — "

"You must hate yourself so bad. Poor daddy's boy, so scared of being yourself...Gotta find someone to take it out on, huh? You pitiful fuck."

"Are you my priest or my shrink now?"

"You raped him."

"I did not."

"Say it!"

"I did not and I will not," Roy snarled. "He never said no to me, never. He did say no to Janice at first but he let her join in later. It wasn't rape, none of it."

"But you know you did something wrong."

"Of course I did," Roy said tiredly. "I'm not an idiot. I didn't set out to hurt him but I did take advantage of him. He was obviously very sick and I shouldn't have touched him that day but I can never seem to help myself when it comes to him. There, I've confessed. Are you happy now?"

Zeke held his position. "That can't be all," he said.

"But it is."

"You're lying."

"I'm not. I fucking swear it."

"You have to be lying! There has to be more, there has to be a reason for — "

He stopped.

"Reason for what?" Roy asked. His voice was deadly, soft and terrible in its compassion.

Helpless with sudden grief, Zeke couldn't form a retort. Nor a question. He couldn't quite remember who he was angry at.

Roy's sardonic voice intruded. "You thought you could make sense of everything by coming here, didn't you?"

Zeke could only fall back on a sullen glare, backed by accusation. "It has to be your fault."

"What has to be?" Roy had gotten a whiff of Zeke's blood now, and he went for the jugular without hesitation. "Did Casey do something bad? Did he misbehave, or is he just making you miserable in general?"

Both, Zeke thought, but had the presence of mind not to say. He was still standing in the middle of the living room, so drained he wanted to sit down right there on the floor.

"I think I see what you're up to," Roy went on. "You want to believe he's an innocent victim but he's not having any of it, is he?" He shook his head, smiling. "That sounds like my Casey."

"He's not your — "

"And he's not yours either, from the sound of it." Roy's voice was gaining in strength. "What's going on, Zeke? He wouldn't say I raped him so you come here thinking you could get me to say it?"

Rather than crumble onto the floor, Zeke moved to sit on the nearest piece of furniture, which turned out to be at the other end of the couch that Roy was sitting on. His entire body was weighted down by the knowledge that he shouldn't have come here.

"Well, " Roy said brightly when Zeke had been silent for a while. "It's very late. You need to be getting back to your hotel — unless you were planning on staying for something else?"

Zeke looked at him just in time to glimpse the come-hither. "You're out of your mind," he said, wondering if he might vomit, so intense was his disgust.

"You're attracted to me, Zeke."

"How sick are you that you would have sex with me now?"

"I find the idea kind of appealing, actually."

Roy sidled down the couch until he was close enough for Zeke to smell his aftershave. He stroked Zeke's chest, toying with a button. "It is sick, isn't it? I want to touch you and think of you touching Casey...and you want me to touch you because it's so naughty and perverse and you're so angry..."

Zeke shoved him back. "Get your fucking hand off me."

Smiling, Roy slithered back to where he had been. "Okay, baby. Like I said before, you really aren't my type."

"And I prefer my sex with human beings."

"Ooh," Roy pouted. "Sticks and stones, baby. It's just as well...I really do love my boys small and pretty...and the needier the better, you know."

The words instantly incinerated all the oxygen in Zeke's lungs. He had known this already and he had even said it to Roy but until now he hadn't truly appreciated how pitiful Roy was, how very profoundly he despised himself. The man was repulsed by his own desires, and he was repulsed by Casey for fulfilling them.

"I do believe that it's time for you to be going," Roy said, rising gracefully to his feet. "Thank you, Zeke. This has definitely been one of the more interesting evenings I've had — "

"I'm not done with you yet," Zeke said.

"Oh, please. You are so done."

"I want to meet Janice."

Roy looked bored, which Zeke was beginning to recognize as his stand-by for covering up panic. "Now why would you want to do that? I've told you everything...and I've told you she didn't do much of anything. Allow me this one noble impulse."

"No. I want to hear the story from her too."

"What makes you think she'd ever tell you?"

"Because I'll do the same thing to her that I threatened to do to you if she doesn't."

Slowly, Roy folded once again into the couch. He said, "She's trying to put everything about her marriage to me behind her..."

"And she can...after she talks to me. You still speak to her, don't you?"

"Barely."

"I'm sure you can get in touch with her."

"She's probably out of town...you know, enjoying the holidays like some people do?"

"How about you humour me and let's find out?"

"Right now?"

"No time like the present. Call her up...I'll wait."

Roy's jaw set. He stared at some indefinable point on the wall.

Zeke shrugged. "I can always find her myself. It may take some time but I will, and then you'll have no knowledge of what I say to her or what she says to me. I tell you what...you think about it while I get my coat on. You have until then to decide."

He was allowed to take several steps, almost out of the living room before Roy called him to a halt. "Wait, goddammit."

Zeke stopped. He waited.

"All right!" Roy yielded. "All right, I'll call her but I can't promise anything."

"I get that," Zeke replied, twisting around.

"And what do you want me to say?"

Zeke took a second to pretend to think about it. "I want to sit down with the two of you for a nice, private discussion, and when that discussion is over, this whole business will be over."

Roy nodded, seeming slightly dazed. Without a word, he grabbed for his phone. It was white like everything else, styled like something from the sixties. He dialled from memory, Zeke noted, which was interesting considering he and Janice "barely spoke". Whenever Zeke stopped speaking to a person, he usually dumped their phone number from his memory banks.

"Hello, Rhonda...I hope you've been having a good holiday. Oh, not bad...yes, she's down in the Dominican right now...Yeah, don't we all...so, is Janice around? Really? Lucky break for me, I thought she's be off somewhere herself...Thanks." Roy put the phone against his shoulder. "She's there," he whispered. "Why don't you talk to her?"

"You talk to her first," Zeke replied. He was enjoying watching Roy squirm far too much.

A woman's voice issued from the handset. "Roy?"

Roy quickly put the phone back to his ear. "Janice, it's Roy...yes, sorry..." The voice at the other end was angry. Roy coughed and overrode it. "Just give me a second and I'll tell you...You know that subject that we said we'd never, ever talk about...well, we have to talk about it."

Janice's reaction was easily heard and understood, even if Zeke couldn't make out a word of it.

"Will you give me a fucking second? This isn't my doing, I swear it. I have a man in my apartment right now — " Roy was cut short as the feminine voice rose even higher in volume. "Does it matter how? Is it any of your business...? Thank you. As I was saying, I have this young man in my apartment. His name is Zeke Tyler and he's...he's Casey's boyfriend. Yes, he's standing here right now."

Roy's face was very red. At last he was sweating and Zeke was just petty enough to enjoy the sight of it.

"We've had a very candid conversation about what happened between you, me and Casey...well, he informed me that I have no choice...anyhow, I'm afraid he isn't satisfied and he wants to hear your version of things."

There was no reaction to this that Zeke could hear. He reached for the handset, taking it from Roy's shaking hand. "Give me that..." He pressed it to his ear. "Janice?"

A cool, surprisingly detached voice replied, "Yes."

"This is Zeke."

"What do you want?"

"I want you to agree to meet me and Roy in my hotel room tomorrow at..." Zeke bumped up the time he had been thinking, then bumped it up again. "...at three."

"I have plans for tomorrow."

"I suggest that you change them."

"And if I don't?"

"I've told Roy that if he didn't cooperate I'd go to the police and the press with what I know. He believed me — and I'm making the same promise to you. If you go along with this it will all be over tomorrow and you won't need to be afraid of getting dragged through the mud. All I really want is the truth and I'd rather have the trial in private, but I'll go public if I have to."

It was incredible how even in asking a question the woman contrived to sound imperious. "But you got Roy to tell you what happened, didn't you?"

Zeke replied, "Can I trust Roy to tell me the truth?"

Janice was silent for quite a while. Then she acceded, "All right...three o'clock tomorrow. Which is your hotel?"

"The Hyatt."

"Do you want me to come right to your room?"

"Wait for me in the lobby. I'll meet you and Roy there."

"Acceptable," she said, and hung up.

Zeke hung up. "You heard," he told Roy. "Three o'clock."

"I'm supposed to be leaving for Vegas with Allan tomorrow morning," Roy protested.

"You'll have to make other arrangements."

Roy observed, "You're really here for revenge, aren't you? Not the truth."

It was an interesting experience to watch a person hating you and unable to do anything other than that; Zeke soaked it up and answered at his leisure. "Truth is the priority. Revenge is a bonus. Good night."

Standing, he collected his coat and backpack and departed. The doorman downstairs was happy to call him a cab.

Something happened in the cab, though. One moment he was sitting, looking out the window and thinking about how tired he was, very diligently not replaying the conversation with Roy — and the next, he was trying not to weep. He held on through the drive back and paying the cab driver and all the way through the lobby to the bank of elevators. He did not have the elevator to himself so he had to hold on all the way to the ninth floor.

Once his door opened, he dropped his backpack and walked the straight line in front of the TV set, pressing his fingers against his eyes, gasping and snuffling until he had gotten control over himself. No, he was not falling apart, that was not what was going on here. He was just too fucking tired. His day had been abominably long...incredible to think that it had begun in the Connors' kitchen.

He had only enough energy to strip before he fell into bed, and a soft, black void.

 

It was undoubtedly a good thing that he had made his appointment with Roy and Janice as late as he had, because he slept until one o'clock the following day, waking up ravenous and absolutely wired.

The first order of business was to call up room service and order the biggest steak dinner on the menu. While he was waiting for his food, he shaved and showered and got dressed. When the meal arrived, he was on the phone with a travel agent. There was a flight that night at nine, to Houston; he would have to spend the night there but then he could get on a ten-thirty a.m. flight to Los Angeles and be at LAX by noon the following day — which, he thought with satisfaction, was still a day before the wedding. After gobbling up his twelve ounce steak, loaded baked potato and a salad that Sasha would have described as tragically uninspired, he called housekeeping and asked them to come make up his room. Then he headed down to the lobby.

Whereupon he realized that he had a problem. There was nothing to do but wait and sitting was out of the question. It seemed as though his skin might actually split open, such was the purity of intent that hummed under it. He gave only brief thought to calling home to see how Casey was doing — very brief thought. There was no need for it. Nor did he call his father. He didn't have anything more to report, and once this was done he would hop on a plane and be in Los Angeles with time to spare. To stay unconfused, be the old Zeke — that was all that he truly needed. The old Zeke had a plan to carry out today. The plan was beautiful, brutal in its simplicity, and there was no place in it for sentiment.

In the half hour he had to wait, he walked around the hotel block five times, using the kind of rapid stride that would never have worked if Casey had been around. Casey could cover a lot of ground for a person with such short legs but at this speed Zeke would have quickly left him behind. He would have been forced to ease off, to modify the length and frequency of his stride...just as he would have to change his entire approach to this day. Or even to give up — oh, yes, it was good to be alone, because he was not done. He was so very fucking far from done.

It was just a few minutes before the designated meeting time when he planted himself in one of the couches in the lobby. In a hotel of this size there was a constant flow of activity through the three entrances, each of which faced a congested major street or avenue. He chose a position where he could watch what he considered to be the "front" entrance, but he decided not to mind if he missed them coming in. He simply couldn't watch all three doors at once.

"Here we go," he muttered.

They might decide to call his bluff, though, and just not show up. But he rather thought they would — and it was imperative that he not bluff or give way on any point. He had to be prepared to do what it took, regardless of the cost. Scandal in the papers, a notorious trial... oh, he did love the idea of a trial. Roy and Janice suffering blow after blow to reputation, pride, finances...and even better, Casey being compelled to talk. That was a perverse delight to contemplate — except, Zeke realized with a tinge of bitterness, not even the force of judicial authority could make Casey talk when he chose not to. He would shut down or work himself into such a state that no competent doctor would let him out of the hospital to testify. Casey, like Zeke, would do whatever it took.

But he was a fuckwit, to be thinking of Casey now. That was absolutely what he must not do, not if he was to be successful this afternoon. He must keep that crystalline, glittering purpose. There could be no doubt, no weakness.

Zeke committed himself to not think — to look around instead, maybe observe the people around him for a bit. There were several other men sitting nearby, reading newspapers or magazines. There was a youngish woman sitting on the edge of a couch, uneasily perched between two of the men, her suitcase by her feet, half- blocking the row between the couches. Her eyes met Zeke's; she smiled slightly and glanced away. Over at the long, polished counter there were all manner of well- dressed, well-turned out people, but Zeke saw one man in jeans and plaid flannels, wearing hiking boots. On his other side, the hostess for the hotel pub-restaurant was trying to politely handle what looked like a homeless man. Zeke imagined that this was a frequent occurrence; they were in the core of the downtown and it was winter.

He checked his watch. Five after three.

Maybe it was for the best if they didn't show. It was time to go on to the wedding maybe, admit defeat...but then after, he didn't know what. He just knew that he couldn't let things go back to how they'd been before.

"Zeke."

He careened back to reality and saw Roy standing there maybe five feet away, alongside a slim, blond woman. She wore the kind of high-end conservative style that could be afforded only by the very wealthy. Her jewelry was subtle; her hair a smooth, shoulder-length mane of blond, an effortlessness that probably took hours to achieve. Her face was composed to the point of haughtiness. As she moved closer, however, Zeke could read the intense stress just beneath.

He stood up to greet her. "Janice?"

She graced him with a regal nod. While Roy's gift was his ability to bespell his victims, hers was an aloof manner that would appeal greatly to a certain type of man. She wasn't a lot older than Zeke, and not hard to look at by any means, but there was an almost virginal purity about her. It was difficult to imagine her taking her clothes off, let alone having sex. And it was almost impossible to imagine her wanting to do any of what Roy had described.

"Well?" she said. "Can we get this over with?"

Zeke gestured that they should follow him. No one said a word while they waited for the elevator, rode to the ninth floor, walked to Room 914. Zeke hoped that the housekeeping staff had done their work and was relieved to find, when he opened the door, that they had. Not that it was anything but ridiculous to care if his unwilling guests thought him slovenly.

"Come on in," he said, suddenly at a loss as to how to begin. "Would you...um, like a drink?" He peeled off his coat and threw it on the bed, noticing as he did that Roy was acting the part of the gentleman, helping Janice with her own coat and hanging it up for her like they were out for a night at the theatre. "The mini-bar's stocked."

"No...thank you," she replied. Roy glanced at the fridge with momentary longing but said nothing. Janice glided over to the space by the window, to the two wing-backed style chairs and low table that were arranged near it. She took the liberty of sitting in one of them, crossing her legs and generally conveying that she was a queen holding court.

"So how do we do this?" wondered her disgraced consort, sitting in the other chair. Roy was nervous, it seemed...which was interesting. He hadn't acted half as frightened when Zeke suddenly materialized in his life last night.

"We just begin," Zeke said. And just like that, his insecurity gave a good impression of having disappeared. With nowhere else to sit, he took a corner of the nearest bed. He was resolute, dispassionate, under control. He was Zeke Tyler once more.

"You aren't recording this conversation, are you?" Janice asked. Her tone was just short of contemptuous.

"No."

"I'll have to take your word for that."

"Yes. You will."

Unexpectedly, she showed him that she too had a capacity for contradiction, appearing much younger than she had just a minute ago. It was a vulnerable look, putting Zeke in mind of a freckled ten-year-old. "I had hoped to never have to speak of this again," she observed.

He tossed back, "The thing is, when you destroy a person there tends to be repercussions."

Janice's face twisted slightly.

Roy made a sound of disgust. "We didn't destroy Casey, he was destroyed before we got to him — don't let him bullshit you, Jan."

Janice's lips thinned. Whatever contempt she had for Zeke, it was patently held tenfold for Roy. She retorted, "I'd like to know what happened."

"In what way?" Zeke returned.

"I mean that night...after we left, what happened to Casey?"

"You mean after you and Roy were finished with him?"

Her lips were almost non-existent now. "So to speak."

"I don't know entirely, I didn't find him until the next morning. He was at a restaurant that we both know, in the bathroom. I don't know how he got there but I think he walked. He was all beat up and completely out of it so I took him to the hospital. He ended up in the psychiatric hospital for a while...because he was a danger to himself, you see. Since then he's had anxiety so bad that he has a hard time leaving home. He's afraid of people and he's had no life to speak of besides pills and appointments."

Zeke was quite aware that he was overdoing it, and doing Casey an injustice besides. He didn't care at the moment. It was gratifying to watch Janice's composure cracking, breaking open and exposing the human feelings beneath. They didn't appear to include remorse, not just yet — although he sensed that it was there to be trawled. "God," she whispered.

"Give me a break!" Roy said, smirking. "We didn't do that — Casey was practically a hermit when he was with me and he had all sort of episodes to begin with. I saw it myself."

Janice turned the remains of her cold mask upon him. "But he obviously needed medical attention and we did nothing." Her back became straighter, her posture more rigid if that were possible. "I would like to apologize to him."

This elicited a full snort from Roy.

"I don't think Casey would care to hear it," Zeke said. "I'm not sure how he'd react to hearing from you."

"Then perhaps I could write it..."

"No, no, no!" Roy broke in, he leaned forward, addressing Janice with some urgency. "We can't do that. You were the one who said we should leave him alone, Jan."

"Oh, but it's a bit late for that," Zeke noted. "Isn't it, Roy?"

"What do you mean?" Janice asked. "Roy hasn't seen Casey since that night at the hotel." She sought confirmation from Roy. "You haven't, have you?"

"No, I haven't seen him."

"But you didn't 'leave him alone' either, did you?" Zeke needled.

He'd had a hunch that Janice didn't know about the letter, and her reaction bore it out. Every visible bit of skin went hectic, from her brows to the slight bit of skin showing above the top button of her blouse. "You...absolute shit," she said to Roy. Her mask didn't just split apart; it crumbled completely, revealing an anger so absolute that Zeke almost could feel sorry for Roy. Almost.

Roy was shaking his head. "You just had to tell her that," he muttered in Zeke's direction.

"What did you do?" Janice demanded of Roy. She rose to her feet, and although she was not much taller than Casey, her anger cast a convincing shadow. "Tell me or I'll just ask him — which I'm sure he'll be only to happy to tell me — "

Still Roy didn't answer, so Zeke chimed in, "He wrote Casey a letter. It was a real piece of work too."

"What did you write, Roy?"

"Jan — " Roy pleaded, breathing rapidly.

"Don't call me that. What did you say in the letter?"

Silence. Roy's face was almost glowing purple with being-caught- ness, and Zeke basked in it.

"Roy... tell me now."

"At least can't we have this conversation in private?"

"I want to have it now." Janice was once again in her chair but just on the edge of it. When Roy was not forthcoming, she said to Zeke with brittle calm, "A week after Herrington I told him I was divorcing him. He had made it very clear to me that he was going to continue on with Casey regardless of what had happened — I think he had already gone looking for him at the university." Turning on Roy, she added, "I could just see your wheels turning, thinking you would go get him and keep him tucked away somewhere, never mind what you had just done to him — "

"Oh, and suddenly you're all about being nice to poor Casey," Roy sneered.

"I wasn't nice to him." Janice held her head high as she stated, "I didn't like him and I still don't, but at least I have some concept of right and wrong. I figured the least I could do was keep you away from him."

"Spare me, please. You just wanted to make sure that I wasn't happy."

Janice didn't appear to have heard the accusation. "I can't believe that you would promise me and then immediately — " For a few seconds, she couldn't continue. She forced out, "We had an agreement."

"Do you have to talk about this in front of him?"

As she informed on Roy, Janice's expression was nothing less than vindictive. She told Zeke, "The grounds for the divorce were adultery and emotional cruelty but that was all it said in the documents. I told him I would leave out the details of his...homosexual relationship...as long as he didn't contest anything, and as long as he swore never to approach Casey again."

"You know damned well that you didn't want to put in any details," Roy snarled. "They would be far more humiliating for you than me."

"I would have done it."

"You believe that if it makes you feel better."

"And I would never have agreed to the financial settlement that you proposed if you hadn't promised me...but then of course you had to turn around and let the whole world know you were gay!"

Roy shrugged. "I just thought it was time."

"You just never do anything unless you can stick it to someone else at the same time. And when did you send that letter?"

Zeke volunteered, "We got it early in September through Casey's parents."

Janice became mottled with red all over again. "You promised me," she hissed at Roy, "and then turned around and wrote him. Was it on the same day even?"

"The same afternoon," Roy returned with vicious satisfaction. "I'm not about to have you or anyone else tell me who to love."

"Then all I can say is thank god you never loved me. I'm the better for it."

Roy stood up so suddenly that Janice flinched. He blinked several times, glaring at her, then subsided into his chair and muttered, "Can we get on with this?"

Except Janice wasn't ready to let it go. "Why did you write him?" she pressed.

"Why?" Roy burst out. "Because I wanted him back, that's why! And believe it or not, I did want to explain things."

"I read your ‘explanation'," Zeke said. "All you did was hurt him more." He had to clasp his hands in his lap as they were shaking badly. "I'm not going to let that happen again."

"I want to apologize, not explain — " Janice started.

"No," Zeke cut her off, not minding if he sounded cruel. "I'm not going to let either of you justify yourself to him... but if you want to write something, I do have an assignment for you."

"What's that?" Janice asked.

"This is something I want the two of you to work on together."

"What now?" Roy sighed, as though the entire business couldn't possibly be more tedious.

"Before you leave this room today, I want you two to agree to the facts of what happened between you and Casey on that day in the hotel and write it all down. I want you both to sign off on it."

Eyes were gaping, mouths slack, and Zeke was delighted to see Roy and Janice so entirely stupefied. "You both have to agree that what you put down is accurate and true," he added.

"I told you everything yesterday," Roy said, overriding Janice who was now attempting to form some words.

"Not everything...not enough."

"You just can't accept that Casey would lie to you."

Zeke had already learned the importance of making himself impervious to any of Roy's snide but insightful little attacks; that was where he had gone wrong last night. Now in the light of another day and another round the comments glanced off him without causing any damage. He replied, "If you told the truth, then you won't mind reviewing it with Janice and writing it down."

"I do mind — "

"I absolutely refuse!" Janice erupted. She was rigid with indignation. "I'm not going to put anything on paper so — so you can — take it to the police and — !"

"Jan, calm the fuck down," Roy said. He had become very still and yet there was a sense of barely restrained aggression to him, like he might have launched himself from the chair at any moment. Until this moment Zeke had been of the opinion that the man was capable of emotional violence only — but now he had to wonder if, or how often, he had shown this side of himself to Casey. "For one thing, there's nothing to share with the police. We didn't commit a crime."

"But we — "

"Listen to me...I told my lawyer the whole story and if you believe nothing I say at least believe that I am honest with my lawyer. He said we did nothing criminal." Still with that hint of threat, Roy turned his focus upon Zeke, even as he continued by implication to address Janice. "But of course we are terrible, immoral people, or at least I am. I admitted as much last night and I told Zeke that it was mostly my fault, so please don't get worked up."

"I don't have to write it down," Janice said, her mouth trembling.

"No, you don't have to," Zeke responded, speaking to both of them. "You can not do what I ask but I have to assume, then, that you would prefer to wait and see what speculations your local papers can come up with."

"I don't care," Janice pronounced. "Let them make up whatever they like, I'll know it isn't the truth." She removed herself from her chair and took several proud steps, plainly intending to leave.

Roy's head snapped away from Zeke. "Janice," he said.

Her steps slowed, stopped. Facing her ex-husband, she said, "You're an idiot, Roy. This guy is not going to do what he says. He's here for Casey, he's not going to go to the press. He's gambling on your fear of being embarrassed and of course you're falling for it because you always do. You're pathetic, and I'm leaving."

She didn't budge, however. Her eyes fluttered anxiously around the room, touching on Zeke often. He saw a sheen of perspiration on her forehead.

"I'm not here for Casey," Zeke corrected her. His brain churned, manically producing words and sounds that his mouth could barely keep up to. "I'm not deluding myself that my motives are pure — I'm here for me. I've decided that I need to know the truth and I don't care what it does to Casey, I swear to fucking god if I have to I'll go to the police on Monday. I will personally drag Casey all the way here to make a statement if necessary. I won't enjoy it, but I'll do it."

Janice was staring at him in horror by the time he finished. "I don't believe you."

Roy was also assessing Zeke, but he came down on the other side of the issue. "I'd suggest that you do believe him, Jan," he offered.

"Why? I don't — "

"Because I think I know how he feels."

Zeke did not miss Roy's smug little half-grin. "You don't know shit," he snapped, and Roy just grinned some more.

"But what — " Janice fumbled. "Why do you want — why does it have to be on paper?"

"It's for me and Casey to read together."

"You don't make any sense."

"It's like this...Understanding Casey is a project I've been working on for the past five months. When I take something on I don't fail. I'll do what I have to to get it finished and I'm sure I can get more truth out of you this way than through the legal system. It isn't enough for me to hear it and then tell Casey what I heard. I need Casey to hear it directly from you and this is the easiest way, short of putting it on tape. I swear to you no one will ever see it but Casey and me."

And possibly Sasha, he noted to himself. He certainly had no objection to keeping one or two things from Sasha, but the man could be maddeningly persistent.

"Janice...I do believe you wanted to do right by Casey," Zeke fabricated. "I'm sure you regret what you did and you want to do something to make amends."

Wordless and obviously struggling, she just blinked at him.

"That's crap," Roy said. "You can't make amends for some things. Apologies are useless, they're just an insult. Once you do something really bad, you can't go back. You can't be forgiven... I'm just more honest about that than most."

Janice's chin lifted again. "If you're honest then I'm Mother Theresa."

She sat once more, her mask back in place — at least for now.

Zeke retrieved from the top of the dresser the pad of paper and the pens he had just bought last night. He placed them on the table in between Roy and Janice. "Let's consider this a revision of that piece of shit letter you wrote," he said to Roy.

"Will you leave the room while we do this?" Janice asked Zeke.

"Absolutely not. I don't want to give you a chance to agree on some watered down version of the story. I'm going to be here the whole time."

Her hand shook as she reached for the pen. "This is humiliating."

"That's the idea. Just be glad I'm not going to ask you to recreate it on the bed for me."

"With you playing the part of Casey?" she mused, ice-cold eyes stabbing at him. "I don't think so."

Zeke suddenly felt sick inside but he forced it down along with the detritus of doubt, self-recrimination and just plain old nerves. Zeke Tyler did not have nerves; he didn't harbour redundancies such as second thoughts.

"Let's get to work," he said.

 

This was going to be one of those days.

There were several of them in Zeke's memory, days that he didn't really think about, at least not consciously. Every couple of years he would glance at them, then put them away for another year or two. It wasn't that they were especially bad or good but that they tended to invoke a blistering intensity of feelings. He had always liked to think that he wasn't about that.

Like there had been that one when — well, he thought he might have been ten because his father had long since stopped living in Herrington full-time. At that point Jacob had been living in Cincinnati for two years, yet he still showed up regularly. To visit Zeke, he claimed, but Zeke knew that he and Rachel would spend the night together almost every time. Jacob would sleep in her bed and a lot of times she would take off the next morning and they wouldn't know where she went. Presumably, to see one of the many men she liked to keep on a string. No matter how many times it happened, his father appeared surprised by it.

On this particular day in Zeke's memory, they had all woke up in the morning to find Rachel still in the house. Jacob had even cooked breakfast, and the three of them ate together. It hadn't been perfect; Rachel fidgeted and snapped at them both, and she'd left immediately after. Zeke hadn't cared. He'd been glad when it was just him and Jacob. They had spent the whole afternoon doing nothing of very great importance, and that was the day that Jacob had said to Zeke, "The best way to feel things is with your head." Or something like that. It was a rule that Zeke had tried to live by, but he was beginning to learn that there were times when even thinking could be the enemy.

Such as now when it was nine twenty-five and he was running to his gate at the Greater Cincinnati Regional Airport while shouting into his phone. "It's Zeke, I'm on my way — "

"Zeke," said Jacob's relieved voice. "I was worried — "

"I'm getting on a plane right now. I need to stay over tonight in Houston but I'll be there tomorrow around noon, okay?"

"But...okay, all right...I have to go get a final fitting for my...but someone will meet you...um..." There were mutters in the background. "You will? Thanks...all right, Zeke, Melissa's daughter, Chloe, she'll be there."

"Okay — gotta go!" Zeke hung up without another word. He dodged families and business people and other people in uniforms, and finally, he skidded up to the kiosk where an attendant was waiting with arms folded and toe tapping. Ten minutes later, his plane was taxiing with him in it. He was mired in the middle of a row of passengers, some of whom he knew were glaring at him for having held them up. "I've got to quit smoking," he panted.

There was a warm chuckle beside him. He turned and noted a petite, older man wearing a polo shirt and nylon slacks. "You say that now," the man said. "I've been trying for about fifty years. Still smoking."

And just to corroborate, the man bent over and engaged in the most horrendous, appalling round of coughing. It sounded like whatever was left of his lungs was choking him on its way up. Zeke stared ahead, at the male steward who was doing his safety demonstration, and hoped that his horror didn't show.

"I quit," said the person to Zeke's right, an older woman with a beehive and a drawl.

"Yeah," Zeke said, regretting having made his comment out loud. Now that he was breathing normally again, he didn't feel so much like he was ready to give up the cigarettes anyway, and he certainly didn't feel like hearing a sermon about it.

"The patch. It worked for me."

With a private grin, Zeke envisioned himself with nicotine flooding his body from multiple sources, patches and cigarettes. And why not chew some Nicorette in his spare time.

"So are you from Houston?" the woman asked

Shit. She was a talker.

"No," he said, and then added with forced politeness, "Going to my father's wedding in Los Angeles."

"Oh, how nice! I've never been but I think I'd be kinda scared, it's so big."

"I've never been either."

"But...doesn't your father live there?"

"Yeah," Zeke replied, volunteering nothing.

"Oh...I see."

Zeke didn't think that she did see. Meanwhile, he was beginning to see that he should have gone first class. Two hours in the air provided nothing to rebut the conclusion. Neither of the two who flanked him could be said to chatter non-stop but all the same, Zeke was kept fairly busy just being civil.

On the other hand, it occurred to him later as he dragged himself and his bags through the door of his hotel room at midnight, maybe that had been for the best; when it came to not thinking, he needed all the distraction he could get. Although broken down with stress and overuse, his brain would persist and grind gears, keeping him from a sound sleep. It didn't help that he was cranky, sticky and clammy from his brief exposure to the Houston climate, having travelled to this monster of an airport hotel in an unconditioned cab. And this was nothing compared to the summer, the cabbie had told him.

After a quick shower he laid on his bed. Into his brain popped some random notion of reading over the words written earlier that day by Janice and Roy. It was a pretty compelling read to be sure, but nothing that he would really want to lose himself in over and over. Besides, he already knew what was in there; he had reviewed it all, even as it had gotten late and he knew he was going to be hard-pressed to make it to the airport. After he watched them each put their signature to the paper, he'd then snatched up the pages, folded them and stuffed them in his backpack.

His attention drifted to the phone, lying in the time-honoured position on the nightstand between two double beds. It was still only ten o'clock in Seattle

Not yet, said a strange, small voice from within him, and he obeyed it without question. Instead of calling home, he chain-smoked and denuded the mini-bar while he watched TV late into the night. The combination of mood-altering substances and mind-numbing entertainment kept everything at bay, and finally he was able to sleep.

The next morning's flight was short, only an hour and a half. Zeke was more than content with that. He was getting very tired of airplanes. The airline breakfast had been particularly hard to take this morning — but at least he had shaken off his hangover sufficiently that he was craving a real meal well before he landed in Los Angeles.

He knew nothing of Melissa's daughter and more or less expected a cardboard sign with his name on it when he got off the plane — not a young woman who walked right up to him and said, in a husky, buxom voice, "Zeke?"

He blinked. "Chloe?"

She smiled and stuck out her hand. Her hair was super-cropped and blond, body taut and athletic. In another life he would have been instantly attracted to her. Okay — he was attracted to her, and maybe the Roy thing wasn't anything to torment himself about. Maybe he was just in a mood to be attracted to everyone he met. He wondered if he would have felt any attraction towards Chloe had Casey been with him, knowing that Casey would have gone berserk just at the sight of her.

"How did you...?"

"Find you? Your dad gave me a picture. Shall we get your bags?" She proposed it with that same to-the-point, no-nonsense way of talking that he'd observed in her mother.

It didn't take long for them to collect his things and get going. By the time they had crossed the asphalt desert of the parking lot, Zeke knew that he had entered another world where sunshine was the norm and any temperature below sixty was considered harsh. He noticed that many people were wearing coats, jackets or sweaters. Meanwhile, he was ready to stop at the nearest Old Navy and buy a pair of shorts. As much as he hated to admit that the weather had any impact on his mood, something in him did lighten at the brush of warmth across his skin.

"Hey...what ‘cha thinking?" Chloe asked him unexpectedly.

He had turned his face to the sun. "It's good to get away from winter," he replied.

"It's not so cold in Seattle," she noted.

"Not so warm either. And it rains all the time."

"Huh," Chloe said brightly. "Listen to us going on about the weather! We must think we don't have anything to talk about — oh, here's my car."

She drove an almost-new Mustang convertible, candy-apple red. Zeke felt himself grinning. "This is your car?"

"Yep...why, you don't like it?"

"Oh, I like it. In fact...will you marry me?"

She laughed. "There's that slight hurdle where you're into guys."

"I'd make an exception."

Still smiling, she teased gently, "And we're kind of brother and sister, too." She opened her trunk; it was small, but they managed to get the hockey bag in. "What the hell are you lugging around here?"

"Christmas presents," he grunted, tossing his suitcase into the tiny bench that served as a back seat.

"Oh, that explains it," she said without a hint of irony. "Hop in."

Soon they were flying at a slightly illegal velocity towards — Glendale, she informed him. He was amazed by how good he felt just being outside with the wind in his face. She let him bide in quiet enjoyment for some time but after a while she said, her voice slightly raised over the rush of air and the roar of other vehicles, "It's too bad you couldn't bring your boyfriend."

"Um...well...he just couldn't."

"I should tell you, your father has been freaked out for at least a month. I've never seen anyone get so uptight, you'd think he was the bride."

"Is your mom nervous?"

"Oh, no." Chloe shook her head. "She's a very stress-free person!"

"What about you? Are you a stress-free person?" he asked, watching her hands on the wheel. She drove like she talked — concise and confident.

"Not totally...but pretty close to it."

"And what do you do?"

"You won't believe this but...I'm a programmer."

"Why would I not believe it?"

"I don't know, maybe because programmers are all supposed to be geeky guys with thick glasses and plastic pocket protectors. I seem to get that a lot."

"What kind of programming?"

"I work for a company that makes educational software."

"That's cool."

"Yeah..." Chloe took an exit, only one of a thousand they had passed. The sign didn't say "This way to Glendale" but she had to know her way around. If anyone had asked, Zeke would have denied it but even after having driven in some major cities with fairly busy freeways he felt slightly intimidated here. It was only slightly less chaotic than a colony of maddened insects. To his slight surprise, however, he was finding himself able to relax with her driving. It was nothing sexist; he tended to trust only himself behind the wheel. "So what about you?"

"I'm just going to school. Philosophy."

"I hear you've already owned a business though. That's impressive."

"Not very. I just cashed in on being a small-town football star. You're much more impressive."

"Let's agree that we're both impressive then."

Zeke couldn't help a grin. "All right. So...what do we have to do for this standing up business?"

She gave him a brief, oblique look. "Just — stand up. Put our signature on a document, smile for the camera, then eat and dance."

"I think I can handle that."

"By the way...you'll be staying at the house with my mother and Jacob and me. I hope that's okay."

"It's fine," Zeke said.

The house where Melissa and Jacob resided was somehow very California- esque to his eyes; it was not obscenely large but still formidable, with Spanish colonial touches. It was perched on a verdant hillside, accessed by a road that wound through the thick, well-planned foliage the clotted the neighbourhood. There was a Ferrari parked in the drive, and a Mercedes-Benz Off-Roader. Jacob and Melissa weren't hurting.

"Looks like your dad's back from his fitting," Chloe observed.

"Did they buy this house together?" Zeke asked as Chloe parked behind the Ferrari.

She appeared half-startled at his ignorance, and half-amused. "No, this is kind of my childhood home. Mom's business sort of took off when I was twelve or thirteen, and we moved here after that. Your dad just decided to move in with her."

Zeke didn't correct this second reference to Jacob as his "dad".

They went around to the back, entering the house by means of a large patio boasting the most enormous, multi-tiered grill that Zeke had ever seen. The backyard was an expanse of rich green, set with a jewel-shaped pool. Currently, there was also an arched trellis adorned with white and blue flowers placed at the edge of one part of the yard. Facing the trellis were rows of white folding chairs set out in two groups with an aisle formed in between them. It hadn't occurred to Zeke that the wedding was going to be here at the house rather than in a church or some other public venue. Counting the chairs, he took some comfort in the fact that there was seating for only about fifty people.

Sasha would have gone into multiple orgasms at the sight of the kitchen. It was ten times the size of the one they shared in Seattle, boasting all stainless steel appliances, surfaces gleaming in the sunshine. There were ceramic tiles everywhere and an enormous Mexican-style table that could easily seat twelve.

"Home sweet home," Chloe announced. "Or it used to be anyway."

"You don't live here?"

"No, I live in San Diego now. Would you like a tour?"

"Um...maybe later."

"Okay." Chloe hollered out, "Mom! Jacob!"

Just moments later, Melissa appeared wearing a luxurious terry robe, her face covered in some greenish mud. She was holding something in her hand; diligent observation led Zeke to determine that it was two slices of cucumber. Jacob was almost on her heels. Incongruously, he was fully dressed in slacks and a crisp shirt, holding a folder that looked work-related.

"Zeke," he said with a stiff smile. "I've been worried — "

"Yes, but he's here now, dear," Melissa overrode him. Unlike her fiancee, she gave the appearance of being simply pleased to welcome him, with not a trace of anxiety. She came up and kissed him on the cheek, taking care not to leave any of her face behind. She smelled of fruit and earth. "I'm so sorry Casey couldn't make it after all, I was really looking forward to seeing him again."

Zeke gave her a hard stare but couldn't see that she was anything but sincere.

"Sit down, dear...Chloe, get him something to drink, please, I just have to finish up here."

"Mom was having a little home spa," Chloe explained unnecessarily. "But it's really Jacob who should have it." She grinned cheekily at Zeke's father.

Zeke sat down at the table, bemused and strangely discomfited by this cozy, domestic display.

"What would you like to drink, Zeke? We have coffee, tea, all sorts of juice — are you hungry?"

"Actually...yeah."

"There's couple of wraps in the fridge, we get them from this place that makes them for take-out."

"Sounds good."

"I'll be right back," Melissa sang. "Chloe, dear, would you — ?"

"Yeah, Mom...I'll feed him."

For the first time since leaving Casey at the Cincinnati airport, Zeke was aware of some guilt; this all didn't sit very well when he had every reason to believe that Casey was at home doing nothing but suffering. His anger was still burning but it wasn't nearly the all-consuming inferno that it had been. Fury was a wonderful shield against remorse but he couldn't sustain it indefinitely, and now suddenly his time away from home was morphing into a vacation-like situation, complete with the beautiful girl of Casey's worst fears.

"Is it okay if I use the phone?" he blurted as Jacob slid into a nearby chair. "It's long distance. Or I could use my cell — " Without a word, Chloe brought the phone to him. It was shaped like a giant chili pepper, bright red with a green cap. "I'm just going to check in at home," he explained but Chloe was already on to the next task, rooting in the fridge. She looked over her shoulder momentarily.

"Of course," his father said.

Except there was no answer at home. Not sure if this should be reassuring or not, Zeke left a message: "Hey, it's Zeke. Just wanted to let you know I'm at Jacob and Melissa's house. Just in case you tried my cell, I've been messing with the number. For now if you want to reach me, just call me here. It's..."

"818-555-9770," his father supplied, feeding it to him slowly as he repeated it into the phone. Chloe put a plate in front of him with what looked like some sun-dried tomato thing of above-average vegetable content.

"So, that's all," he finished. "Um...bye for now."

Hanging up, he struggled to get his head back to Los Angeles. It was rather worrisome that no one had answered the phone. He wondered if he should keep calling until he got an answer, maybe something was happening —

No. He was entitled to give his attention to something other than Casey for a few hours, especially since he was here now and there was nothing he could actually do. And after he had just done what he had done... Fuck, he had gone the distance, hadn't he? He had hunted down Roy. He had stalked and threatened and extorted information from him and Janice and now he had a head full of stuff that he wished he didn't.

Self-possession, moral outrage and righteous indignation — all the run-away reactions scrabbling for the last dregs of fuel went supernova, collapsing like so much hot air. What remained, what felt real, were his actions of the past forty-eight hours. The things he had threatened. He could tell himself now that he had been bluffing when he said there was nothing he wouldn't do to get the truth but he was afraid it had been anything but a bluff. He really had wanted to know so badly that he didn't care how it hurt Casey. Yeah, he knew he was a challenging personality, he'd known that for a long time. He could be bold, domineering, arrogant, and a real jerk — but in this instance he had just plain outdone himself.

Jacob's voice tugged him away from his floundering. "Zeke."

Chloe put a glass of juice on the table, near his hand. He looked up and saw that while he had been ruminating Melissa had reappeared, minus the mud. She and Jacob were watching Zeke strangely, and he supposed that he was pretty strange indeed. He didn't belong here. He was a pinched, scabby thing squinting into the light, not sure if he could tolerate anything wholesome.

"Zeke," Jacob said. "Can we talk?"

At that, Melissa grinned and said brightly, "Translation: ‘Go away, everyone else.' Come on, Chloe." Before Zeke could protest, they both went out the door to the patio; Chloe winked once at Zeke just before she slipped through, leaving him to Jacob. He had never felt so weary.

"I've done something I'm afraid you're going to be angry about," Jacob started.

This was unexpected; Zeke had been expecting a lecture about Casey and related issues. "Do you have to tell me now?" he wondered.

"I'm afraid I do."

"Okay...what is it?"

"Ah...um..." Jacob seemed to have to struggle to look at Zeke. "So, your mother called me last night."

Zeke searched his father's face and accessed his rusty database of family facial twitches. "You invited her to the wedding," he guessed.

"Yes — " Jacob lifted his hands in a petition for lenience. "Now just hear me out."

"You promised, Jacob."

"I know I did, that's why I'm apologizing now."

Zeke was about to get up from the table and flee — he was going to flee it all, Casey, his mother, his father, he was going to run to the other side of the country, New York or something and start all over and never let human feelings trouble him again — when he heard Roy's words actually come from his mouth: "Yeah, well you know what? Apologies are pretty damn useless once something is done!"

Fuck. Fuck This had to be a new low when he was parroting Roy- Fucking-Windle. He fell back into his chair, his muscles going limp.

"Will you let me explain?" his father asked.

"What's to explain?" he said flatly. "She called and twisted the knot until you had to invite her." There was a throbbing behind his eyes. He said, not caring about anything except the need to have an answer and an ending to all the crap, "How can you be like this? You're a grown man, you have a better than average ability to reason through things, why do you let her do this to you?"

"Zeke, that's enough." Jacob folded his hands on the table. "I know I've screwed up big time, but I'm still your father."

"You think that's enough to get you my respect?"

"No, of course not...but I'm not going to let you walk all over me either. I had a choice as to whether or not to invite Rachel when she called, and I chose to ask her. Not because she manipulated me into it but because I wanted it."

"Oh, I see. It does your ego good to see two women arguing over you, does it?"

"I said that's enough, Zeke!" Jacob's tone hardened into something surprisingly authoritative, even disciplinary. "You have every right to be angry with me for how I've treated you but I'm not going to let you play this game where I have to take whatever you dish out. Are we communicating?"

Zeke blinked. "Yes."

At this more filial response, there was a softening in Jacob's tone. "Believe it or not, there may be a few things you can learn from me, Zeke. You don't know everything just yet."

Closing his eyes, Zeke surrendered to his own weariness. He rubbed his temples. "I know that," he said.

"It's taken a long time to get to the point that I can do this. The way I see it, I'm not really strong if I have to avoid her. Building a wall and saying 'don't come in'...that's not strength as far as I'm concerned. Melissa understands...and I hope you'll understand too."

"Is Rachel staying here too?"

"No, absolutely not."

"And she knows I'll be there."

"Yes. For what it's worth, she's promised to be good."

Zeke snorted his opinion of that.

"I know," Jacob said, wincing. "But I can promise you this...if she gets out of hand she won't be staying."

"Jacob...?" Zeke sat forward, hunching over the table. He could hear the strain in his own voice, feel the end of his day very near, waiting for him. He was feeding on scraps now but this was a question that he needed to ask. "Why did you stay with her for so long? I think I'm entitled to know that...and I really do want to understand."

"Well, then..." His father looked up towards the ceiling. "I loved her, for a start. There was no way not to love her. I know I had this image of her in my head that just didn't turn out to be the truth... I mean, as of today I can say I'll never really know what she feels or thinks, but I believed for a long time that she was a desperate, sad person who would change if I just did everything right. It took me ten years to figure out that I couldn't change her. I don't think she can change...whatever happened to her, it was already too late by the time I met her. Or maybe she was born that way, I don't know. Back then I thought...I thought that, despite everything, she needed me and that was what kept me going." Jacob smiled wistfully. "Obviously, being smart has nothing to do with it."

There was no reason that these words should have had the power to smash the last of Zeke's resources...but they did. He pushed himself onto his feet, driven by a dire need to get to someplace private. "Ex-excuse me," he gulped. "I — "

He didn't know which room he was supposed to be in. He sat down again, trying to retain an iota of dignity.

"What's the matter, Zeke?" his father said gently.

Zeke was going to lose it and he mustn't. He must not. He was...he was calm, cool and collected...icy...absolutely icy...

"Is it about Casey?"

"I — don't know what to do — " Zeke withdrew his hands from the table so that he couldn't be touched. If someone touched him now it would be disaster.

"Maybe...you could tell me?"

Zeke put all of his will into resisting the siren call of another person's sympathy. "I — can't," he gasped, trying to breathe through it. "Can't talk now." He got through another full inhale and exhale. "I'd like to go to my room — wherever that is."

"Sure," Jacob said. He didn't seem upset, that Zeke could see. "I understand. You look tired, you'll probably feel better after a bit of a rest. We were thinking we could go out for a drive and dinner later, just the four of us. How does that sound?"

"I guess."

"Your room will be the second on the right, at the top of the stairs. Do you want this?" Jacob pointed to the veggie wrap.

Zeke shook his head. Stumbling a little, he collected his suitcase and backpack. For a moment he stared hopelessly at the hockey bag.

"Never mind that," his father told him. "Just take it easy for a little while." He put a hand on Zeke's shoulder and patted it a couple of times before letting him go.

His room was very appealing, full of natural light with his own small patio overlooking the backyard. He left his suitcase where it lay, but before lying down he removed the Janice and Roy Statement from his backpack. Holding the wad of pages for a second, he put them down on the dresser. Watching them as though he actually thought they might jump up and bite him — fuck, he was so losing it — he slumped on the bed, gradually inching back until he was reclined against the pillows. He closed his eyes and tried to be aware of nothing but the warm sun on his face.

The pages on the dresser had permeated the room, and him. Almost immediately, a tableau began to form in his mind, shaped out of information that was to him both dreadful and fascinating.

Roy is lying on the bed, reading something but thinking that soon the day would be over and he'll have to go back to Cincinnati without Casey, while Janice waits, standing at the window. There is a knock and Roy leaps up, grinning. ‘It's him,' he says.

Zeke growled and crumpled that image — but his fatigued, jittering brain refused to give up the scene and turned to words in lieu of pictures. Janice's words, spoken and then written.

Casey came in the room and right away they started hugging and touching while I watched them. At first Casey didn't realize I was there. He was clinging to Roy and he looked ill —

Zeke pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and growled, "Get the fuck out of my head." He really didn't want to do this now. Now, he wanted to rest a bit before he was called upon to socialize some more. But the thoughts of Casey and Roy together wouldn't go and his body twitched with the need to do violence to somebody...an opportunity missed...so good, so sweet...he wanted it so much...

"Fuck!" Zeke sat up so quickly he got dizzy. "Fucker...mother fucker..."

It made as good a mantra as any, probably better than most. He made his entire consciousness into a great, silent fuck you. It would not banish Roy and Janice, but it did keep him occupied for a while, long enough to construct a flimsy pretense of control.

Forty five minutes later, Chloe knocked politely on his door and asked him if he was ready to go on a little excursion. They drove to Santa Monica that afternoon, Melissa pointing out the sights along the way, and ate supper at a seafood place where it was so fresh it was almost crawling off the table. The drive home was accompanied by a spectacular sunset. Zeke hadn't been expecting to enjoy himself, but he did. Without Chloe, it would have been another story, of course, but he also noted peculiar, random moments of feeling soothed and reassured by the energy between Melissa and his father. He'd been exposed to it before, but here where they were in their own element, it came across as something benevolent, nearly powerful. It was the dynamic of two very good friends who were careful to never let things get too heavy but weren't afraid of showing each other how they cared.

It was almost ten when they got back; Zeke was dying to smoke. There had been no smoking in the restaurant, and it was definitely off-limits in the Mercedes. However, before Zeke could take steps to satisfy his craving, Jacob pressed the button on the answering machine and Sasha's voice immediately haunted the kitchen.

"Hello. I'm calling for Zeke Tyler...? Got your message, sweetheart. I'm about to head out to work...I'm just thinking about you, hope you're doing okay. Talk to you later."

"Huh," Chloe commented. "Is that the famous boyfriend?"

"No," Zeke said, distracted by his efforts to parse Sasha's words. "That was the famous roommate." There was something taut but simmering, something angry...and a new kind of something perhaps. Some tension was to be expected, given the way that Zeke and Casey had recently parted. But Zeke had known that when he left. Still, he mused, "Maybe I'd better call tonight."

"Or you could wait until tomorrow," Jacob said. When Zeke looked at him he shrugged, added, "It didn't sound all that urgent."

"I haven't called — " spoken to Casey "— for two days."

"You called this afternoon."

Zeke didn't waste any time trying to not be suspicious. "What are you trying to do, Jacob?" He noticed that Melissa and Chloe suddenly found some very acute piece of wedding business to discuss off in another sector of the kitchen, not quite out of earshot.

"Just that maybe a little distance isn't such a bad idea."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Are you sure? You'd be surprised what I know."

"I mean, you don't know about me and Casey. You don't know why I should call or shouldn't call. Just stating a fact."

"All right, that's true," Jacob admitted. "But I do know you're exhausted. You've let them know where to reach you if there's an emergency. No one will fault you for taking a few days for yourself."

He thought it but didn't say it: Being here is not what I'd call ‘for myself'.

"Okay," he allowed. "You have a point." Besides that there was a throb behind his eye, and all his muscles were stiff. If he didn't remove himself from this kitchen and this company, he would pick a fight. "Uh...is it okay if I smoke out on the deck?"

"Ahhm," Melissa hedged. Chloe nudged her and she concluded, "Yes. I'll get you something for an ashtray." She went to a cupboard and rummaged.

"Hey, Zeke!" Chloe exclaimed suddenly. "How about a before-bed swim?"

"I...don't have a suit with me."

"I'm sure we could find you an old pair of shorts... it's very relaxing."

"Thanks, but...no thanks." As though providing reinforcement, Melissa handed him a shallow, ceramic bowl. "Thanks."

"You shouldn't smoke, dear," she chastised. "Do you know what it does to — "

"Mom!" Chloe explained. "He knows. All the smokers know...so no preaching, okay?"

Melissa shook her head sadly. "Of course. Sorry, dear."

"It's fine," Zeke said, congratulating himself on how very affable he was being tonight. "It is your house. Um...I think I'm going to turn in right after this. Thanks for supper, Melissa...Jacob."

"Do you need a sweater?" his father asked.

"No, thanks. Are you kidding?"

"It feels a little chilly to me. Anyway...good night."

Soon it was just him alone, hanging over the deck railing while he sucked back toxic fumes and listened to the distant night sounds. It was surprisingly quiet around here considering the millions of human beings on all sides of him. The totality of their noise somehow disintegrated into a soft hiss, while in the foreground there were crickets and the odd dog barking.

All over again, he felt like an interloper in such a peaceful scene. He shouldn't be here like this, he didn't belong. It felt like he had just left that hotel room a minute ago and he should still be there, freely constructing a narrative out of the most embarrassing, intimate and hateful things...the things that had happened to Casey.

 

"Is Casey really going to read this?" Roy asked.

"I said that, didn't I?" Zeke replied. He had just endured for a second time Roy's tale of being alone with Casey in the hotel room — or, what Roy liked to call the All-Time Greatest Fuck. It was old news by now but nevertheless Zeke's teeth hurt from being clenched against an attack scream.

"Yes, well...I'm just asking."

"Why?"

"Because..." Roy trailed away. Then with a defiant lift of his chin, he finished, "There's no reason to hurt him more if it can be avoided."

"You just tell the fucking truth."

"And nothing more?"

Roy had manufactured a few tears, just enough to make his eyes glisten. Zeke was almost impressed. "Nothing more," he grunted.

"What if I want to tell him I think he's amazing and beautiful?"

"You say you don't want to hurt him, so don't."

"How can that hurt him?"

"Just write down the truth...and never mind if it's not pretty."

Speaking to the page in front of him, Roy muttered, "And I'm sure you never tell anything but the truth, right Zeke?"

"Shut up and write."

"Yes, do shut up," Janice snapped. "I'd like this to be over some day."

Roy resumed writing; Zeke let him go for a few minutes, then decreed, "Read it out loud."

Narrowing his eyes briefly at Zeke, Roy read, "'After we were finished I knew it was time for Janice to come back. I called her — "

"No. Not good enough."

"That's what happened, what do you — "

"More detail."

Glowering, Roy yanked out the page he had been writing on and ripped it in two. The fragments drifted gently to the floor as he complained, "This is my private life — and Casey's. How would you like it if — "

"I don't care. I want the details."

Roy narrated loudly, "After I exploded inside Casey's ass I withdrew my dripping cock. Pouring sweat, I tried to catch my breath as I stroked his porcelain white flanks — "

"God!" Janice said, hiding her eyes.

"Not that kind of detail," Zeke gritted.

"Then perhaps you'd be so good as to dictate exactly what you want me to write."

"I want to know how Casey was — what he said, what you said — "

"He wasn't saying much of anything." Roy's handsome face pinched slightly, as though it had just occurred to him that something had been wrong. "He kept saying he was ready, which I thought was kind of odd but I figured he just wanted to get it over with so we could get back to our usual sort of activities. I thought, just give him what he needs right now and then we could go home and I'd make it better."

"How? By fucking him some more?"

Janice had her face completely averted now but Zeke didn't give a shit about her delicate sensibilities.

Roy spat back, "I have a tender side too, Zeke. I wanted him to come home with me. I would have been very good to him, I would have done anything he wanted!"

"As long as no one knew." Zeke ran his hands up into his hair, massaging his temples along the way. There was just nowhere to put his rage. "So...he said he was ready, was that all he said?"

"Yes...no, come to think of it, he was muttering stuff about 'them'. I can't remember if it was before or after."

"'Them'?"

"I kissed his ear at one point and he practically broke his arm trying to get away. When I asked him what was wrong he said something like 'that's how they get you'."

Zeke launched himself from his spot on the bed — and managed to put on the brakes just a foot or two short of Roy's chair.

"You going to hit me now, Zeke? I know how much you want to."

"No," Zeke growled. "I won't give you the satisfaction."

"But I deserve it, don't I?" Roy's eyes were lowered, in shadow. He cast a quick look at Janice, then back down at his lap. "Go ahead."

"Fuck you!" Zeke found himself laughing, because it was really quite funny that a person could be so profoundly self-centred and still so ignorant of himself. A show of guilt was offered up as it was the appropriate flavour for right now, but Zeke had no idea if it was real or artificial. After almost twenty-four hours with this man he still had no idea where the truth was even though he was right in the eye of it.

"What shall I write then?" Roy asked quietly, still putting on a show of diffidence.

"The truth," Zeke said.

"I started to and you stopped me."

It occurred to Zeke that Roy was near his limit, just like the rest of them in the room. He elaborated, "Write a paragraph about what you just told me and be sure to include that you were wrong."

Then he took a very-much-needed personal time-out in the bathroom, to splash cold water on his face and examine himself in the mirror for a half a minute. When he returned, he resumed pacing the expanse of carpet in front of the TV, while Roy recited what he had just written: "‘Both before and after the sex it was quite apparent to me that Casey was in extreme distress. Even if he was more than willing to have sex, I should have realized that it was the last thing he needed.'" He finished reading the paragraph out loud and added coyly, "Will that do?"

It was a facsimile of remorse. Zeke could have held out for better — but his stamina was failing by the second and he just wanted this to be over. He said, "Okay, Janice, you take over now."

Taking the pen, Janice closed her eyes and reflected for a few minutes. She started, speaking her memories aloud, "I came upstairs and found the two of them naked in the bed. Casey didn't look at me, I don't think he was even aware that I was in the room at first but Roy said he was ready. I didn't want to do it. Roy said, 'You wanted this, now you've got it. Don't humiliate us more by backing out now.'"

"Is that what you said?" Zeke asked Roy.

"More or less. Actually, I think I only mentioned how humiliating this was to Casey, but never mind."

Janice didn't acknowledge Roy at all; her eyes were stony, chipping away at the wall. She continued, "So I took off my clothes and got in the bed. Casey was sitting up watching me and I remember thinking he seemed terrified of me. Roy forced him to lie down because he was as stiff as a board."

"I did not force him," Roy contradicted.

"You did so."

"I helped him to get comfortable, or I tried. He was just so tense..."

"Yeah, I agree with that," Janice rasped. She got up abruptly and wandered over to the TV, resting a hand on it. Looking at neither of the other two people in the room, she spoke as to inanimate objects. "Maybe he was saying 'yes' but his body was definitely saying 'no'. I think I said it wouldn't work but Roy took my hand and put it on his...on his penis. We both touched him there but nothing happened. Roy, he...he got more...more active. He said, 'touch him, touch him'. He kissed Casey and told me to kiss him, so I did. That was when I knew I couldn't do it, because he didn't react at all. His lips were almost blue. I pulled back and...I kind of lost it. I froze. Meanwhile Roy was all over Casey. He had his hands all over him...in-inside, you know...and for a while I just..." Janice's voice trembled. "...I just watched. I watched him."

Unexpectedly, she broke down and began to sob; her back was heaving, her shoulders shaking with spasms of emotion.

"I watched while he...he put Casey the way he wanted him and went inside him...and Casey never did anything or said anything. He wasn't there, he didn't even blink except when Roy did that. It was like...like he was a doll that Roy was playing with."

Zeke wondered if he was on the brink of a major cardiac incident. His face was both burning hot and devoid of sensation, numb. Blood-lust sang in his ears as he said to Roy, "Is — is it — true?"

"More or less," Roy said flatly, his eyes blank.

"Is that what you told your lawyer?"

"More or less."

"Stop saying that!" Janice shouted suddenly. "Why can't you just for once say 'Yes, I did a bad thing'?"

"I did say it. I have said it — "

It wasn't that Roy's voice broke. It just stopped like he'd put a cork in a bottle. He put his face down on the table, resting his forehead there just for an instant, just one second and then he lifted his head again and resembled his usual, smirking self. "Finish telling him," he said to Janice.

Janice turned away from the TV and the wall, wiping both eyes simultaneously with her thumbs.

"Okay," she breathed. "Okay...um...Roy didn't get to...um, finish because I said I couldn't do it. I said it a few times before he heard me but when he did, he sort of...well, he pulled out and we argued... I... I've never seen him so angry. He said I ruined everything. I said I couldn't do it, I asked Casey to get dressed... I wasn't sure if he heard me. I put my clothes on as fast as I could. I felt so dirty. And Roy got dressed too... I told him then I never wanted him to see Casey again or I would divorce him and I wish I could say that was for Casey's sake but it wasn't, not right then. I just never wanted — not even a chance that I would have to face him again. I wanted him gone, I never wanted to hear his name again."

"Wait," Zeke interrupted hoarsely. He heard himself croak, "Is that how it happened, Roy?"

Roy waved a hand.

Zeke shook his head. "That's not good enough."

"Yes, fuck you, yes! Except don't you believe her acting all noble like she wanted to save Casey from me. She touched him too, she had her hands on him and it turned her on."

"You — you — " Janice sputtered.

"Asshole, yes. I am an asshole — but I'm not the only one in the room."

"It — did not — turn me on."

"Well." Roy glared scornfully at his ex-wife. "I guess we'll never know, will we?"

"I'm the one who stopped it."

"Yes, but only after you got a good taste of him."

"You have to agree on what happened," Zeke ground out. His head hurt so much that he could barely think.

Roy answered, "We can put it down the way Janice told it. I just want you to realize she's no innocent."

"But is Janice's way the truth?"

"‘The truth, the truth'," Roy mocked him. "God, life must be hard for you."

"I never said I was innocent," Janice protested. "I touched him a bit, I kissed him once. But Roy did everything else."

"You agree?" Zeke said to Roy, who rolled his eyes.

"Yeah," he drawled.

"Get writing then," Zeke commanded.

Janice wrote for half an hour while Zeke tried to ignore his pain. For once, Roy seemed subdued, sitting quietly, his attention elsewhere. When Janice stopped writing, Zeke asked, "Done?

"No. There's a little more." There was no sign in her of the ravages of half an hour ago. "After Roy left, I...I don't know what I thought — maybe I'd take Casey to a friend or ask him what I could do but he was sort of hiding in a corner of the room and I didn't know... I mean, I knew I should stay and help him but I just couldn't face it. If I tried to help it would be a big mess, people would see me and ask what happened and I couldn't bear it, I couldn't."

"So you ran away," Zeke finished for her.

"Yes," she said, her emotions quite well in hand now. "I did worry about what happened to him, I swear I did. I checked your local paper every day for a few weeks and there was nothing. I needed to know, so I hired...hired an investigator and I learned that Casey had moved to Seattle, that he's living with you and that Sasha. I didn't tell Roy, of course."

"Write it down," Zeke said tiredly. He didn't have it in him to care that she — and just as easily, Roy — could have known exactly where they were living all this time. And he probably should have been more outraged at her pitiful self-justification for having left Casey in the state he had been in. It would seem that he was far too accustomed to the disgusting lack of ethics, the absence of even ordinary compassion in these two people. At this point, nothing they did struck him as shocking.

"Why can't I put in an apology?" Janice asked.

After a moment of trying and failing to think of a better reason, Zeke replied, "Because."

Her mouth tightened.

"Just write that you were wrong," he added. "That's all I care about. And you, too — " He addressed Roy. "I want you to say how wrong you were to just take off."

Roy considered him for a moment, then said, "What do you really want, Zeke? The truth, or a confession?"

Zeke wasn't about to answer that. He glanced at the clock radio and said, "I want to get out of this room. I have a plane to catch."

Roy just smiled and took the pen when it was his turn.

Twenty minutes later, they departed, all three of them at the same time. Zeke left his keycards on the dresser. In the hallway, he was struggling with his luggage when Roy picked up the hockey bag. "No," Zeke protested.

"Don't be stupid. I'm not going to contaminate it."

As before, they rode the elevator down to the lobby together. There was no talk, no eye contact. Zeke had to think that they were just as eager to get away from him as he was to escape them. Once they were standing in the lobby he warned, "I'd better not ever learn that either of you has attempted to contact Casey in any way."

"As long as I never hear from you again," Janice retorted, haughtier than ever. Examining her, Zeke saw only the slightest trace of red around her eyes. "If Casey ever wanted to contact me, though...for an apology..." She offered Zeke her card.

"I doubt that — "

"Please. Just take it."

Reluctantly, Zeke accepted the card. He tucked it in a pocket thinking he would get rid of it at first opportunity, while Janice walked away without another word.

"Nice to see you again, dear!" Roy called after her. She didn't turn or otherwise respond to him. "Well, baby," he said to Zeke. "Let's get you on your way."

Zeke scowled. "I can manage myself...I've had enough of you."

"Ditto, I assure you. Humour me — I'd like to see you in the cab and actually hear you tell the driver to take you to the airport. For my peace of mind."

"Whatever."

They walked out one of the exits, the one where there was a carport full of taxis, shuttles, limousines. "A cab, please," Roy said to the doorman, before Zeke could.

The man nodded and turned to wave over one of the drivers who was standing by.

"It's been interesting," Roy started.

"Don't even," Zeke retorted. The cab pulled up and the doorman began to lift his bags into the trunk. "We're not friends, and in a few seconds we won't even be acquaintances."

It happened, then — Zeke was about to reach for the handle of the car when the other man moved and crossed every one of Zeke's borders in an instant, catching him entirely unaware, getting a handful of Zeke's coat and yanking him forward into a kiss. This was no tentative foray like last night — it was a mouth mashed against Zeke's, a tongue probing without invitation. It went on just until shock moved past itself into reaction, stumbling over rage and hatred and absolute incredulity. All while the coldest part of Zeke was noting the taste and the texture. Interesting, it commented. Not erotic, not in the least, but certainly an intriguing thing to happen —

He shoved Roy back. "Hasn't anyone ever taught you," he gulped, "not to touch people without their permission?"

Roy affected a serious consideration of the comment, then replied, "Oh, come on, Zeke. I don't think permission was an issue."

Zeke spent a moment digesting that, then rounded off and delivered his best punch flat in Roy's face. He suspected that the bones in his hand shattered on contact — but somehow he barely felt it.

"Hey!" cried the doorman. "You can't — stop — no fighting, I'll call security!"

Roy had reeled back against the car door. Holding one hand against his face, he threw up the other hand to forestall his rescuer. "It's okay, it's okay...it's all right. I'm fine."

The doorman said icily to Zeke, "Please get in the cab now, sir."

"I'm trying to do that," Zeke returned, "if this prick would just get out of my way."

Roy edged sideways and around Zeke. "Kinky," he remarked, feeling his lip. His eyes were nothing but amused. There was no blood that Zeke could see, but perhaps there would be a bruise. He hoped so.

He got into the car without a word. Just before the doorman shut the door for him, Roy called out, "Kiss Casey for me!"

 

The sounds of Glendale quietly wrapping up the day were all around Zeke still, infuriating him with their blithe ignorance of his crisis. He crushed his cigarette, cramming his mouth around a shriek or howl or scream, fighting back swell after swell of tears. Why the fuck was he crying about this anyway? He was pissed. Not grieving, not some stupid sap who missed his boyfriend, not...no, he was not sad...

Not so badass now, huh, Zekie boy?

Shut the fuck up.

Where's the old Zeke Tyler you were talking about?

The old Zeke Tyler's gone. And, he realized, possibly never existed. Because he couldn't deny it anymore. He was the prey of his emotions, much like the majority of the human race.

"Hey."

He whirled so fast that the person behind him jumped.

"Oh, sorry!" Chloe exclaimed under her breath.

Zeke scrubbed furiously at the tears. Breaking down in front of Sasha was one thing — the man had earned it. This was just mortifying.

"Can I help?" she breathed.

He shook his head.

"You sure?"

"Yes," he whispered, and started moving. He passed her and kept going. He didn't stop until he was in his room with a door between him and everything else. Flopping face-down on the bed, he called forth the second wave of misery.

So he was a suck but, more to the point, he was a fuck-up. He'd had one chance to make things right but it had been a disaster, and now he was lying here in tears like the sap that he was. All he had been trying to do was the right thing...hadn't he? He had his failings of course and he knew that he didn't always act rationally but he really had done this, confronted Roy and Janice, for both himself and Casey. He remembered thinking that, and really, it wouldn't have been such a bad thing to put the truth on the table. If he had asked Yves, wouldn't she have agreed that the truth was best, even if Casey didn't want to hear it? So, yeah, he was controlling, possessive...what would the books say about that?

Insecurity, he supposed. He'd had a lousy childhood, poor him, so he didn't trust easily. His mother could shed a mood like she was just dead skin cells, one moment affectionate to the point of smothering, the next railing about something, the next weeping a torrent. So was it any wonder he liked consistency, that he liked people to act as they said and say as they meant? Or that he thought everything they said should be reasonable? At least they should admit it, if it wasn't. Most of all, if a person loved him they should act appropriately. They should not sleep around. They should not let other people lay hands on them, not if they were his. That was the bottom line, wasn't it? It fucking well hurt.

After a while of learning that crying alone was not actually less miserable than crying in front of another person, he slipped gradually into surcease, and then quiet unconsciousness.

A whisper jarred him, followed by a straight shot of morning light. "...shh...!"

"Ma, this is..."

"I just need to see...oh, it's wrinkled."

"Mother, would you just let it be?"

"I'm sure he'd much rather be unwrinkled tonight..."

"He's sleeping..."

"Not anymore," Zeke said. He lurched into an upright position, rubbing a crust of dried tears from his burning eyes.

Melissa was caught, holding his tux up for inspection. "Oh, Zeke, dear, I'm sorry."

"'s okay. Time?"

Chloe replied, "It's after one o'clock. You were really wiped, weren't you?"

There was no visible discomfort in her, and Zeke was easily able to respond in kind, acting like nothing at all embarrassing had transpired. "Yeah...it's been a long haul." He noticed that he had slept in his clothes. Glancing down at himself, he said, "So the tux is in bad shape, huh?"

"Well," Melissa replied, not overtly concerned. "It could use a pressing. Just let me take it and deal with it okay? It's just one less thing for Jacob to obsess about. I'll have it back here by two...plenty of time."

"What time does everything start?"

"The ceremony is at five o'clock."

By the time Zeke got up and showered and shaved and ate breakfast, the suit was wrinkle-free. He considered calling Seattle again but felt reluctant, mainly because he was somewhat obligated to focus on this wedding business for several hours. He didn't want to be worrying while essentially stuck here, so he decided that if there was any sort of emergency they would keep calling until they connected with him. Sasha had said he was going to work last night — if something serious had been going on, it would not have been business as usual.

He dressed with a little more care than was his habit, figuring it was the least he could do on this occasion. He didn't look bad in the tux, and the teal cummerbund and tie were, as promised, not in the least bit girly.

Around four-thirty he went downstairs. There was no sign of Jacob or Melissa but Chloe was standing at the patio door, looking down towards the designated locale for the wedding ritual. "Some guests have arrived," she said. She was wearing a flowery, gauzy dress in shades of blue and green that perfectly complimented the teal that he was wearing. With a single pendant suspended from a choker-style necklace, no jewelry other than a single, funky ring and no shoes in sight, she was dazzling. Zeke felt rather uplifted at the sight of her. He walked up and casually kissed her on the cheek.

"What was that for?" she said, smiling.

"It was a brother-sister thing."

"Oh, was it?"

"Yeah."

Zeke glanced out through the glass door. His knowledge of weddings had been based solely on things seen in movies, on the magazine covers that he had walked past in bookstores, not to mention the various excesses that Delilah had planned at one time. For some unknown reason she'd been determined to involve every conceivable tradition, and she'd invited half of Herrington. True to Jacob's promise, however, today's event was shaping up as reasonably understated. The flowers were subtle, the size of the gathering modest. The music was simple, provided by a trio of cello, flute and soprano; Zeke could hear a hint of it floating up and through the glass. Nothing cheesy so far.

There were five or six people sitting in chairs down on the lawn, all dressed for the occasion — and one of them was Rachel. Zeke could only see the back of her but he had no difficulty identifying her.

"What was that heavy sigh about?" Chloe asked.

"Did I sigh?"

"You did. It sounded major."

"My mother is down there."

"Oh. Then I see your point."

"Have you met her?"

"Hell, no. I've heard a bit about her. I'm a little scared, to tell the truth."

"You want to meet her?" he asked. He figured he would have to encounter his mother sooner or later, and it was better to do it with another person around to absorb some of the overflow.

Chloe made an alarmed face but Zeke didn't buy that she was actually afraid of anyone or anything. "All right," she said. Wherever her shoes were, she did not feel compelled to put them on yet.

They strolled down the lawn to where the guests were assembling; rather eerily, Rachel's head spun and caught Zeke approaching before he could make a sound to identify himself. "Ezekiel!" she cried. She jumped up and ran to hug him; her perfume wafted and enveloped him. "Oh, mon chèr. It's lovely to see you."

"Hi, Rachel," he said.

At his impersonation of a stump, she made a pouty face. "Oh, I see. All right. It's good to see you, sir." Her gaze travelled to Chloe.

"This is Chloe," Zeke introduced her. "She's Melissa's daughter."

"Ah." Rachel gave the younger woman a long stare, smiling all the while. "It's nice to meet you, Chloe. So how does it feel to have a step-brother?"

Chloe shrugged. "That's a funny-sounding word. But seeing as we are about to appear in a whole series of photos together...I'm quite glad to meet him." There was a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

Rachel had the natural ability to see a person's vulnerabilities and get her hooks into them; she must have seen quickly that her evil powers would avail her little with respect to Chloe, so she turned back to Zeke. "So, Zeke."

"So," he grunted.

"How's life in Seattle?"

"Fine."

"'Fine'? That's all I get?"

"Why, what did you want?"

"I thought that since you haven't seen fit to provide me with your phone number and I haven't spoken to you in almost six months, you might have a little more to say."

"Seattle's fine," Zeke reiterated.

"You do look a little worn, mon chèr."

"Not at all."

Rachel made a show of looking surveying the lawn. "Is Casey around?"

"No," Zeke replied, and was profoundly relieved that Casey was not to be subjected to his mother again. "He's in Seattle."

"Oh. But I was sure he would come with you." Rachel lowered her voice. "I hope that everything's working out between you two?"

"Rachel," Zeke cautioned. "You know better than to try that shit."

Pretending to be completely surprised and puzzled, Rachel said, "I was only curious."

"Sure you were."

"I know how hard it is when a relationship doesn't work out."

It was a relief to notice Jacob waving from up on the deck. With a quick survey of the yard, Zeke saw that most of the chairs had filled while he was engaged in the usual mother-son repartee. He said, "I need to go," and walked away without waiting for Rachel to acknowledge it.

Jacob's tux matched his own and was perfectly cut, with an identical tie and cummerbund. And his father did, Zeke admitted to himself, look rather like Steve Martin. Next to Jacob there was a middle-aged man wearing a white linen tunic, flowing pants and beads. Zeke also spotted Melissa standing just inside the patio doors. Her dress was long but simple, mercifully devoid of the spangly, sparkly shit that Zeke associated with wedding dresses. Also, it was an uncommon shade of blue. She waved to Zeke and he waved back before he could feel self-conscious about it.

"Zeke, Chloe, this is Michael," Jacob introduced. "He's from the Unitarian Church. He's going to perform the wedding."

"Lovely to meet you both," Michael greeted them and received back all the appropriate responses. "Okay, here's how it's going to go. I'll go up front. Zeke, Chloe, if you could join me up there when you're ready? Then Jacob and Melissa will walk up together. The musicians know their cue. There'll be some speeches and vows and then there'll be a longer song while everyone signs the marriage certificate. And then we're done."

"That's it?" Zeke asked, surprised.

"That's it."

Chloe nudged him. "What, you didn't believe me?"

Michael asked, "Are we ready then?"

Jacob glanced over at Melissa, who nodded. "Yes," he said.

"Wonderful. See you at the reception." Michael issued an enormous, toothy smile and started the process, casually walking down the steps and across the lawn to stand off to one side of the arched trellis.

At that point, the trio swung into a rendition of I Will Always Love You. Chloe grimaced and stuck out her elbow. "Would you like to do this traditional-like, sir?"

He took her arm. "You bet, ma'am."

She never did put on her shoes.

When they reached the front, the horror of the song came to an end. Then Melissa and Jacob came into view, arm in arm. The couple simply left the house and walked down the aisle between the two sectors of chairs, making no great drama of it. For their "walking down the aisle" song, they had chosen a rendition of "Love Will Keep Us Together". Somehow, it worked. They took their places under the arch with Zeke and Chloe on either side of them, and Michael began to speak.

The ceremony was short, but it was followed by a stretch of three hours that almost made Zeke regret his decision to attend. The four of them went to a local park and had a series of photos taken in various poses and combinations, some more formal, some casual. This process took well over an hour. Then they went to the Glendale Country Club, where still more pictures were snapped.

From there it only got worse. At some point during the photo session Chloe made a crack about a "reception line" and Zeke nearly panicked before Melissa chastised her and assured him that it wasn't going to happen. However, when they arrived at the small ballroom that had been hired for the evening, the four of them got pinned near the door by a group of well-wishers that rapidly turned into a controlled melee; it seemed like every person who came in the door immediately joined the mob. There were a few minutes when Zeke came very close to following Casey's example by slipping away to hide in the bathroom for a while. One after another, Zeke met a pack of his father's partners and colleagues from the law firm, Melissa's best friend Andrea, Melissa's sister and brother and mother and cousins, friends of Jacob's from college and law school. He even met a cousin whose existence he hadn't been aware of, the offspring of an aunt who had only been the subject of rumour as far as he was concerned. She was not in attendance, but her son William was almost forty, overweight and evidently much displeased with all that he saw, including Zeke.

This experience paled, however, to the sheer horror of Rachel approaching, wearing a broad smile like she had figured out a way to take credit for this entire day. It was the first time Zeke had seen his parents in the same space in more than three years. Reality started to tilt a little as Rachel drew near, and it nearly fell over pole- axed when Rachel gave Jacob a kiss and an embrace.

"Glad you could make it," Jacob said softly. "Have you met Melissa yet?"

"No," Rachel replied. "I did get introduced to..."

"Chloe," Zeke put in.

"Yes, Chloe." Rachel offered her hand to Melissa. "Pleased to meet you. I'm the ex-wife."

Melissa clasped Rachel's claw. "I'm glad you could make it."

"Really," Rachel said, somewhere between a purr and a sly question. She was not releasing Melissa's appendage. Meanwhile, Zeke observed that Melissa's bronzed talons were just slightly longer than his mother's.

"Absolutely," Melissa replied, her smile glued on.

"I understand it was kind of last minute..."

"That's all right."

"But you know, I called Jacob and it is New Year's Eve...and it just so happened I didn't have anywhere else to be..."

Melissa's expression didn't change, not one fraction of a whit of a hair.

"Anyway...congratulations," Rachel finished, releasing the other woman's hand. She moved on, and Zeke let out the breath that he didn't know he'd been holding. There were still three or four people standing by, but he'd had enough. "I'm getting a drink," he said.

Chloe followed him towards the bar. "I like the way you think...She doesn't seem that bad," she observed. "A little obvious maybe, but she didn't make a scene or anything."

Zeke snorted. "Just give her a chance. Would you like a drink?"

"Yeah, I'll have a glass of white wine."

"One vodka and one glass of..." Zeke scanned the menu. There were two house wines being offered, which was a bit of a let-down even if he didn't drink the stuff. This being California, he had been expecting access to an entire cellar. "Chardonnay?" he queried.

"That's fine."

The bartender was all business, supplying the drinks without conversation and Zeke respected that. He handed Chloe her glass, feeling the siren call of the cigarettes in his pocket. "Do you feel like taking a walk outside?"

"Sure...a walk," Chloe grinned.

They found one of the exits that took them to a patio area overlooking a beautifully manicured garden and pond. Beyond it was a part of the golf course itself. Chloe just raised an eyebrow when Zeke tipped out his cigarette. "My mother is a born- again non-smoker, you know."

"Really."

"Oh, yeah. I'm surprised she hasn't gone to battle with you over it yet."

"Well...I am a guest. And I'll be gone in a few days."

Few days. The words suddenly seemed to fall in a great emptiness in his head. He wasn't due back to Seattle until Wednesday. That would be almost six, almost seven days away from Casey altogether, including this night that was a holiday for most people. Most people would be with the people who were important to them, come midnight.

"What are you thinking?" Chloe asked.

"Nothing."

Her expression in response to this was, justifiably, disbelieving.

"Okay," Zeke admitted. "I'm thinking maybe I won't stay until Wednesday."

Chloe sipped her wine. She said, "Missing him or worrying about him?"

Zeke respected her too much to pretend not to understand. "Both, I guess."

"I overheard Jacob and my mom talking about him...Casey, right?"

"What did Jacob say?" Zeke wanted to know.

"It was right after you called to tell him about the change in plans and he didn't say all that much. They were just talking about how Casey had seemed to want to come on the trip and it was too bad he couldn't. And Mom said something about him being a nervous type and then Jacob just said ‘hmm' and how he was worried about you." Chloe caught Zeke's eye. "And you do seem pretty miserable."

At her oblique reference to last night's embarrassing scene, Zeke barked a laugh. "I do, huh?"

"Yeah. So what's it all about?"

He looked at her. She was looking back steadily. He said, trying to sound carefree, "But we only just met."

"Ah, but I'm your big sister now." Chloe shrugged. "You don't have to. I'm just offering."

Zeke was silent.

"Okay, forget it — "

"No, it's just...I'm trying to figure out the most efficient way to put it."

Chloe sat down at one of the patio tables. "Fuck efficiency. Just tell me." She patted the chair adjacent to her.

After a moment, Zeke sat. He hunted for an ashtray and couldn't see one.

"Just a second," Chloe said. She downed her wine and then placed the empty glass on the table. "Use that." At Zeke's look she shrugged and said, "It was crap anyway. So what's the deal with Casey, huh?"

Zeke hauled in a breath. "He fucked someone else."

"Ah. How do you know?"

"He told me."

"Hmm."

"And it wasn't the first time either."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, ouch. I've been so...so pissed off the last few days."

"Understandable."

"But I don't feel pissed off anymore."

"Why's that?"

"It's complicated."

"I don't think it is. I think you just miss him."

Zeke waved a hand. "All right. Yes."

"Did you dump him?"

Zeke blinked.

"I ask," Chloe said, "because a lot of people would dump him. I would, if a guy did that to me. And here you are alone, and not very happy."

"No," Zeke said, "I'm not dumping him," and for the first time he really knew that it was true. He'd been playing games with himself, pretending now and then that he wasn't going back, while the rest of the time wondering if he was just a blowhard. "I mean...I don't want to dump him but I don't want to be like Jacob either, making excuses for everything that he does for years and years. That's just pathetic."

Chloe was looking closely, studying him like he was a line of code.

"What?" he said.

"I don't think what your father did was pathetic," she said.

"You weren't there. She made him look like such an idiot."

She shrugged. "I think it takes a lot of courage to let someone make you look like an idiot."

Zeke winced and retorted, "That makes no sense — and you just said you would dump someone for cheating on you."

"I never said I was brave." Chloe giggled. "Hey, don't listen to me! I'm not exactly known for giving good relationship advice." She glanced over her shoulder, in the window. "And they're probably waiting for us."

"Waiting...? Why?"

"To start dinner, silly."

She took his hand to lead him inside. It felt good.

His father met them halfway across the room. "There you are!" he exclaimed. "We were trying to get started."

"Sorry," Chloe apologized.

"It's okay. Come on and sit down..."

The four of them were situated at a small, head table. Chloe was positioned at her mother's side, at the other end of the table from Zeke and that did not make him happy. There was something entirely easy about talking to her. It was like the touch of a cool, crisp stream of water — definable and clean, an uncomplicated distillation of good humour and natural intelligence. He seemed to remember feeling that he could be like that at one time.

One of the lawyers who had been presented to Zeke earlier came up to the podium that was positioned immediately at his right. The man introduced himself as Ronald Richard — Zeke was glad that he mentioned his name because he had zero retention of any of the names of the people he'd met today — and made a brief speech, simply welcoming everyone and then promising to shut up until after dinner. He was a natural orator, making even this mundane business entertaining.

Perhaps the greatest advantage to sitting at the head table, the only advantage really, was that they were served their dinner first. It was beef, chicken, or vegetarian. Zeke had chosen beef but when it arrived he was dismayed by how much open space there was on his plate. It was aesthetically very sophisticated, but he knew he was going to be hungry when he was finished.

"I know that look," Jacob remarked.

"Oh, yeah?" Zeke was uneasy at the prospect of being trapped in conversation with his father for the next half hour to forty-five minutes but he was going to be stoic about it.

"It's like, where's the rest of my dinner? When you were a kid you had a huge appetite, I remember. You would use that exact same face on me."

Zeke tried to remember a context for this statement. Sluggishly, it came to him — himself and his father sitting at a table, not talking about the fact that neither of them knew where Rachel was, while they ate macaroni and cheese.

"Did you actually cook?" Zeke said, looking for verification of the improbable.

"Mostly I ordered in...but once in a while, yeah. I'm surprised that doesn't stick in your mind, I was so bad at it."

"I probably tried to put it out of my mind." Zeke was focussed mostly on hacking up the tiny piece of meat on his place — filet mignon stuffed with wild mushrooms and drizzled with truffle sauce. There was a small ensemble of roasted potatoes and steamed vegetables as well.

Jacob chuckled a bit. "The only defense, I guess."

"Yeah."

They both ate for several minutes, not speaking. They could easily hear Chloe and Melissa's conversation and, up to a point, could pretend that they were busy following it. When it got too uncomfortable, Zeke drew upon a topic that he knew would bring his father and himself together. "So far so good," he commented.

"What's that?"

Zeke gestured subtly in Rachel's direction. She was seated at a table with the long-lost cousin and was conversing animatedly with him. Zeke wondered if they had known each other before. "No major incidents so far."

"I'm not expecting trouble," his father said mildly.

"You give her more credit than I do."

His father shrugged. "She wants to be here through the whole thing. She's not going to go overboard. She's just going to be her sweet, spiteful self."

Zeke had his doubts, but he didn't say so. It occurred to him that despite his claims, Jacob was still under Rachel's power somewhat. He was surprised that Melissa would put up with it; he wouldn't have. That his father could describe her in the terms he had and still not be concerned about her potential for disruption was bewildering.

All too soon there was nothing left on Zeke's plate. He reconciled himself to hunger, at least until he could get to the nearest drive through.

Shortly, Ronald the emcee got up and informed everyone that there would be cake and champagne at midnight. He then gave a humourous talk about Jacob, informed mostly by lawyer stories but still reasonably entertaining. He had most of the assembled group laughing by the end.

Finally, the bride and groom got up to speak.

"Thank you everyone for being a part of this night," Melissa said. "We're not going to talk very long, but there are some people who deserve recognition. Thank you Glendale Country Club and particularly the serving staff."

"Especially the bartender!" someone called out, drawing laughter.

Melissa nodded and smiled. "Yes, all the staff here have been wonderful. And I want to thank my beautiful daughter, Chloe. She's been fetching and carrying and soothing nerves all during this past week.

The guests clapped politely. Zeke nodded to Chloe, while she rolled her eyes.

"I would also like to thank Jacob's gorgeous son, Zeke." Jacob gave her a playful smack on the arm and there was more laughter from the audience. "Zeke is studying philosophy in Seattle and flew here to be with us, and to be a witness to our marriage. Zeke..." Melissa twisted and looked down at Zeke, who wished that he could have a brain aneurysm and thus escape this. "No, I'm not going to embarrass you, honey. I just wanted to say that it means a great deal to us, more than you know."

Zeke dredged up a smile.

Jacob gently interposed himself between Melissa and the mike, again causing an outburst of hilarity. "All right, Mel, all right," he said, and the mirth spread a bit. "I'm not going to drag this out," he said. "Melissa can say it all better than I can, and I know everyone wants to get on to the fun part of the evening. I just want to say..." He cleared his throat. "Thank you to my dear wife, my partner Melissa." His voice even shook. Zeke couldn't believe he was hearing it; he decided that it might be phlegm. "My world was a pretty grey place before you came along. I..." Jacob paused, smiled in self-deprecation. "I'm going to get way too soppy here in a second. What I meant to say was thank you, because there's really no other word that applies."

Amidst enthusiastic applause, Melissa leaned over and kissed Jacob soundly, then rubbed a smear of lipstick from his mouth. Zeke felt compelled to steal a look at Rachel. She was sitting with a smile on her face and a straight back, clapping along with everyone else. It seemed authentic enough, but as Zeke was looking, her eyes moved slyly in his direction and the corners of her mouth turned sardonic.

"All right, we'll have the music rolling in a few minutes," Jacob said. "Mel and I will start out the first dance but that's absolutely the last bit of tradition you'll see... except for kissing at midnight, I hope. Please — and I really mean please — join us on the floor before the song ends. I need the camouflage."

It struck Zeke as his father switched off the microphone and stood back: The man looked happy. He wondered if that was what Jacob had wanted Rachel to see. It was a calculated risk to be sure, but it had to be gratifying to show her, to let her see...Look, I'm moving on with my life finally and I'd like you to recognize it. Oh, and I'm not above gloating a little at your expense.

Chloe had slid into the chair next to Zeke. "Are you going to dance with me, Zeke?" she said, rather coyly.

"Huh? No, absolutely not."

She put on an amused pout. "I'll assume you didn't mean for me to take that personally."

"Oh. Sorry, it's just — I don't dance."

"There's nothing to it! You just put your arms around me and sway back and forth. That's what most guys do."

"Hmm."

"Zeke, don't be a scaredy boy."

"I'm not."

"Then why won't you...?"

"I just don't like to."

"How do you know if you've never done it?"

"Anyway, Casey would freak out."

"Because you're dancing with a girl? Oh, really, it's not like you're planning on sweeping me off to have your way with me."

Zeke didn't let himself react.

"Hey, I insist that you just for this night stop thinking about Casey, and I insist that you dance with me."

Not think about Casey. It didn't sound like a workable premise.

"Zeke?"

"All right," he sighed. "I'll dance with you."

Chloe clapped her hands once. "Excellent!" she crowed and rubbed them in a deliberate impersonation of Mr. Burns. Zeke had to laugh.

While they waited for the DJ to set up, Zeke went to refill their drinks. At the bar he ran into Jacob's law partner, who had been the emcee. "Hi...so you're Jacob's son! It's great to meet you finally." The man — Ronald — was portly and jovial, a bit red in the face.

Since Zeke hadn't remembered the man's name earlier, he decided he should be a bit more civil than he was inclined to. "That's right," he said."

"So...are you thinking about following in dad's footsteps, going into law?"

"Why would I be?" Zeke returned, getting testy despite his good intentions.

The man blinked. "No reason. Just that it seems to get passed down like some genetic condition. My father was a lawyer too."

"Oh...well, no. I'm not sure what I want to do, actually." He'd been fixated on saving Casey and going to school. That was all he could see.

"Lots of time to decide, right?"

"Yes..." It was Zeke's turn to order. He addressed the bartender with, "Double vodka and a white wine, please."

Meanwhile, Ronald went on, "You don't want to be in a rush."

The man's eyes were kind, genuinely interested in Zeke. Zeke took his drinks and agreed, very graciously in his opinion, "Absolutely." Turning, he found himself face-to-face with his mother.

"Oh, is that for me, dear?" she said, nodding at the glass of wine.

Under most circumstances Zeke would have just snapped no and went on his way. Here and now, he wanted to not make or instigate any scenes. "Um..." he said.

"I'll get you one, ma'am," said the portly lawyer. "A white wine?"

Rachel nodded and dismissed him. Her eyes searched Zeke, alighting on his face. "Come talk to me for a bit, mon chèr." The eyes sparkled and Zeke felt the old tug in his gut.

"No," he reacted, not caring what impression he made.

"Oh, Zekie!" She moved in close, slipping her arm in his. "Everyone will think we don't get along. You don't want that, do you?"

A thousand retorts pressed on Zeke's brain. Instead of giving way to them, he sighed, "Fine. Okay."

Collecting her glass of wine from the man, she led him back to her table, which was currently empty. The others who had been seated here were scattered about the room, mingling.

"Mon Dieu, I just spent the most tedious time!" she lamented. "Jacob's cousin has to be the most boring man ever."

"You looked like you were enjoying yourself."

"Oh, no, Zekie, hardly! I was just being polite."

"Rachel, you're never just polite. And don't ever call me Zekie again."

His mother sipped her wine, hiding a smirk. "So forceful."

"Are you done? Because — "

"No, Zeke, don't go." If Zeke didn't know better, he might have drawn the conclusion that she wanted his company badly. "I'm all alone in this room, just stay here with me for a minute."

"You did choose to come here."

"You're very right. I did want to see for myself...and I noticed how your father made a point of saying that he was starting a new, better life. Just so everyone knows he was never happy with me."

Zeke said, "Well, was he?"

Rachel glanced at him and replied with a shrug, "No, he was miserable." Not like it was an admission. She was just remarking on something that was not news, and nothing she might take ownership in. Her eyes flickered back in Zeke's direction. "You know, Zeke, it hurts that you won't let me have your address or phone number. You always did before."

"It wasn't a good idea before and it wasn't this time," he said, tossing off the words cruelly. Surveying the room, he saw that the music seemed about to start. And that was a good thing.

"You wound me, mon chèr. Your father has room for me in his life and he has far more reason than anyone to hate me."

"I guess I'm not as gullible as Jacob."

"Oh, Zeke, really! You wouldn't see me more than once or twice a year, you know that."

He uttered a mirthless laugh. It had to be funny to hear a mother beg for access to her son by reminding him that she'd make herself scarce.

"What's funny?" she asked.

"You, trying to do your version of maternal."

"Let's be honest, Zeke. An occasional visit is more than enough for both of us."

It was astounding how she still had the power to affect him. Not to hurt him, he was long past that...but to make him angry, absolutely. "Forget it," he snapped, rising from his chair.

"I didn't mean it that way, Zeke, I only meant — "

"Did Jacob let you come here so you could make this pitch?" Zeke gritted.

"No, but..." Rachel shrugged demurely. "That was the excuse he made, he really just wanted to get me here so he could prove to himself that he's over me...which he'll never be, I'm afraid."

Son of a bitch. He hadn't even been suspecting Jacob when he asked the question. It had been intended solely as a challenge and now he was repulsed by any notion of being shackled to these two people solely because they each donated a lump of cells. "I'm done with this conversation."

"You'll dance a song or two with me, though, won't you?"

"Absofuckinglutely not." Zeke stalked over to where Chloe was standing, next to the DJ's table. She was perusing the list of songs. "Here's your wine," he said.

"Oh! I'd given up hope."

"I got caught by my mother."

Chloe turned and surveyed Rachel from twenty-five feet away, watching her chatting once again with Zeke's stranger-cousin. "You know," Chloe said. "She doesn't look like a monster."

"Well, she is. On the surface she may seem human but in fact she's an evil, soul-destroying bitch."

Chloe frowned. "That's harsh."

"It's the truth."

Finally, the music was starting. The song that Jacob and Melissa had chosen to begin was Sea of Love. They were not great dancers but were obviously enjoying themselves. Watching his father, Zeke could feel his anger towards him cooling just a little. Parents were, inevitably, a disappointment — but at least this man was not mean and he was reasonably comprehensible. Even if an intensely annoying, high-handed and un-self-aware know-it-all, he at least tried not to be himself on occasion.

"Come on," Chloe said when the song was half over, tugging on Zeke's hand.

Oh, no, he was not at all happy, pressed together with her under forty or so pairs of eyes. He didn't like not being good at something. If he was going to be lousy at a thing, he liked to try it in private first — but Chloe didn't seem to care. She draped her arms around his neck, her body touching his more than it wasn't...belly, thighs, hands, breasts, all soft in all the right places...and she smelled wonderful too. It felt oddly familiar, holding her. This entire night was just odd. Dancing, smiling, eating...conversing with his fucked-up parents. He shouldn't be doing any of it, not when they had thoroughly ditched him before, not when Casey was at home in who- knew-what sort of affliction. Every moment was probably difficult for Casey right now and here Zeke was...dancing.

"You've got a little scrunch, right between your eyes," Chloe noted.

"Just thinking."

"I see. You do that too much."

"I like thinking."

"You need to try harder to just have fun."

"Try harder to have fun?"

"Yeah. Just...shut all that stuff off for a bit, how about?"

"I..."

"It is allowed."

"I know, but — "

"Then do it."

He tried. He focussed on his feet, on not making an idiot of himself. The dance turned out to be endurable although he continued to believe that he sucked.

Next, she compelled him to dance to a few fast songs, which made him feel completely absurd. The cure was a lot more vodka, naturally. And he was to discover that there was a bit of a formula to it: the degree of self-consciousness was inversely proportional to the time spent on the dance floor, the level of enthusiasm in one's movements, and the quantity of alcohol consumed. Within a mere three hours, Zeke had become a good enough dancer that he would have confidently stood up with Prince, Michael Jackson, James Brown and any number of Backstreet Boys.

"Hey, check it out!" Chloe bellowed over the thunder of music. "That guy over there is giving you the horny eye!"

Zeke refused to be obvious and look. "Do you have to shout?" he shouted.

"Yeah! You should dance with him!"

Unable to stand it, Zeke tried to be subtle as he glanced over his shoulder. The man was olive-skinned with dark eyes and built like a fire-fighter. He smiled at Zeke, whose headsnap back in Chloe's direction nearly dislocated his neck. "Do I look gay?" he yelled.

"What?"

"Do I — look — gay?!"

Chloe frowned — just as the song ended and there were a few quiet seconds to use for conversation. "Are you kidding?" she said.

"I just don't like the idea of...people jumping to conclusions."

Her frown deepened. "I'm sure — "

A new song started to blast its way around the room; Zeke recognized it only vaguely.

"— sure he just sees a hot, young thing!" she hollered. "Go and dance with him!"

"No!"

"Oh, come on!"

"I said no!" The way his libido was running, he'd probably end up fucking a complete stranger and that just didn't suit him. Not that he wasn't as randy as the next guy — and it had nothing to do with Casey. It would be completely reasonable for him to get a little action of his own now, no one would fault him. But really, he'd just as soon do it with Chloe, who was not actually his sister.

When the next round of slow songs started, he went over to Melissa and Jacob and asked the bride for a dance. She seemed delighted by this — but half way through the song he saw her smile go still. He followed the direction of her stare.

Jacob was dancing with Rachel. It was not especially intimate but he wore an expression that was hazy and nostalgic.

"Don't mind Rachel," Zeke said. "She's trying to get under your skin. It's what she does."

"But Jacob didn't have to go along with it," Melissa replied sadly.

Across the way, Rachel caught Zeke's eye, and she looked just about as pleased with herself as that proverbial cat, just batting her prey around now, enjoying the slow death.

Zeke said to Melissa, "Excuse me." He broke away from her, went over and said to Jacob, "I'm going to cut in."

For a man who had been in a trance, Jacob seemed grateful. He stepped back, saying, "Oh...yes, of course." Like Melissa, Zeke had to wonder how he could still be so spineless. Whatever Jacob had wanted to prove, this couldn't be it.

"Thank you for the dance, Jakey," Rachel purred softly.

Jacob blinked at her.

"Your wife was looking for you," Zeke said to him. And he gripped his mother's hand, put his arm around her waist and turned her away from Jacob.

"Ah, now I'm happy," Rachel sighed. "I get to dance with my handsome son."

Unpremeditated, Zeke did something completely generous, watching himself from the side with certain amazement. Well, he hadn't gotten his father a wedding gift yet. "If I give you my phone number will you leave Jacob alone forever?"

Her eyebrows shot up, eyes heating with a canny joy. "Why, Zeke! You're so good to your father."

"Will you?" he pressed. "Will you promise?"

"Yes, dear. I will. I'm really here because of you, you know. I wouldn't have come otherwise."

"All right, then. So you write him a nice thank you note for inviting you and that's the last time you communicate with him in any way, shape or form."

"I'm so proud of you, Zeke."

"Shut up," he hissed.

"I'm not playing with you now. I mean it. You're everything that I'm not."

"And no one could be a better role model than you," Zeke retorted. His meaning was not lost on her, he was sure.

"Why, thank you. I'll bet you're just as sweet and kind to Casey. And he needs all that goodness, Zeke. I'll bet he needs a lot."

He tightened his grip on her hand, wanting it to hurt. "You really can't help yourself, can you?"

"Help myself? But what do you mean, dear?"

"I'm warning you now...if you call our apartment or visit, you will be nice to Casey or all of your privileges will be revoked."

"Surely he of all people wouldn't be afraid of me."

"He can handle anything and I repeat...you will be nice to him."

"Yes, dear."

The song hadn't quite ended but Zeke went up to the DJ's table and found a scrap of paper and the pen that the DJ had put there for people to write down their song requests. He scribbled his — and Casey's — phone number and brought it to Rachel.

"I don't want you to use it for at least a few months," he said.

"Oh, Zeke — "

"Rachel. I said at least a few months."

She pouted. "A few as in three?" she haggled.

"Yes. Three."

"Duly noted." Zeke stepped away from her, determined not to have any further conversation.

For the next several hours the wine and vodka flowed freely, and he and Chloe got progressively more drunk. They danced and talked about inconsequential things and it was so good, so easy. Zeke tried but didn't quite conquer the resentful thoughts about how a social gathering had become so un-easy for him lately. Not that he was a party animal, but it was good to just hang out with a fun, slightly flaky female who seemed not to take herself seriously at all and yet was capable of being quite serious. Towards midnight, she picked up two glasses of champagne and they stood together, holding them, waiting for the countdown.

"Any resolutions?" she asked.

"Nah." He had a whole philosophical explanation for it but he refrained from using it. He really did analyze things too fucking much sometimes. He told her so, in fact.

"No, really?" was her response.

"But I like thinking, you know? It...just..."

"Makes everything make sense?"

"‘xactly — you — you know, you're really fucking awesome."

"No, you are."

"No, y — okay, let's just agree that we're both awesome."

"Okay," she giggled.

The DJ had turned down his music and started shouting into the microphone. "Okay, folks, it's time...!" His voice was a bit shrill but that was just one of the many things that weren't bothering Zeke right now.

"Ten...! Nine...! Eight...!"

Involuntarily, Zeke wondered what Casey was doing. Maybe he should call him right at midnight. It wouldn't be midnight in Seattle but that was okay — maybe he should, maybe...maybe he wished he actually was with Casey right now.

"Six!"

"Five!"

Maybe, just maybe, he, Zeke Tyler, was that idiot Chloe had mentioned.

"Hey, Chloe!" he shouted.

"What?"

"Did you know I'm an idiot!?"

"One!" the crowd screamed.

The idiot jumped and yelled along with them — and now he seemed to be faced with a beautiful female who needed a kiss. He let himself be grabbed, drawn in close — ha ha, funny déjà vu all over again with people kissing him lately. It was soft, exquisite, everything he could ask for in a mouth.

But wrong, again.

"Chloe," he whispered, taking a step back. "Chloe."

"Yes."

"I'm gay."

"I think I knew that," she said, giving him a jab with her elbow.

"And I'm an idiot."

"Oh, shush."

Jacob appeared out of nowhere and Zeke let his father hug him. Then he let Melissa hug him. To his relief, he didn't see his mother. She must have slipped away at some point without Zeke knowing it, which was just fine with him.

The music started up again — a real house dance type number, and Chloe grabbed his arm. "Time to dance," she commanded.

Around one, the party started to break up. He was at that most energized stage of drunkenness and wanted to walk, so he convinced Chloe to join him — and not only because he would have gotten lost with out her. She pinched a bottle of the "crappy house white" to take with her and they walked all the way back to the house, in no particular rush. Chloe told him about her job and her house-mate. She shared some amusing anecdotes about her mother that made Zeke like Melissa more than he had. He just listened and smoked while as he walked. He would take a swig when she offered, grimacing at the taste but it had been either that or lose his high on the long walk back. It was three-thirty when they walked into the kitchen in Melissa and Jacob's house. No one else was home; apparently, the older generation could party harder.

"I'm not ready to crash yet, are you?" Chloe asked him.

"Nah."

"Let's just sit out on the deck for a bit..." Wavering a little, she went out through the glass sliding doors and planted herself at the top of the stairs that delivered a person from the deck to the lawn. After a second, Zeke reached in the cupboard, looking for the bowl that Melissa had given him before for smoking purposes. He couldn't find it, so he grabbed the closest thing he could see, another ceramic thing that was much larger, kind of a cross between a bowl and a plate.

Following Chloe out, he sat down beside her at the top of the steps and lit up yet another cigarette. The way the world was swimming for him now, he knew that he was nearing his limit. Walking had been okay, but as soon as he sat down, he felt his body's demand for a full collapse.

"It's nice here," he commented.

"Mmm." Apparently not realizing that it was empty, Chloe tipped up her wine bottle. When nothing came out she scowled and held it even higher, trying to squint down the neck. It was quite hilarious. "What?" she demanded at Zeke's laughter. "I'm thirsty."

"Maybe you need some water."

"Oh, good idea." She pulled up her knees and laid her head on them, peering at Zeke sideways. "Hey."

"Hey," he returned.

"You feel better now?"

"Better than what?"

"You know. Before."

He considered, replied, "Yeah. Still don't know what I'm doing."

"I dunno what you mean...you either go back to him or not, see?"

"I know, but..." He was looking right at her when he had the crazy idea that maybe he should tell her everything. "This whole thing is a mess and I'm nuts — you know where I was before this?"

"Where were you?"

"I went to see his ex-boyfriend in Cin-Cincinnati...blackmailed him into writing down stuff about what he did to Casey...and ex-boyfriend's ex-wife too..."

She looked blank.

"Yeah, it sounds totally crazy, doesn't it? I have this long sort of...like a statement...in my room talking about all the stuff they did and I still don't know what to believe, you know? It's like there's no way to really see it in my head..."

"I dunno what to s-say."

"Let me show it to you. Maybe you can...you could..."

Even drunk, there were words he wouldn't say. Not in this lifetime.

Help me.

"S-sure," she slurred, her eyes closing.

He left his cigarette smouldering in the giant ashtray, and was taken aback by how badly everything spun when he tried to get up; he had to grab the railing to steady himself. "Just a sec'," he said, and stumbled into the house.

He was back a few minutes later with the pages — but it was too late. Chloe was asleep sitting up, her head resting on her knees. After watching her for a few disappointed seconds, he squatted and put the papers down on the deck. He shook her.

"...mmph...what...?"

"It's time to go to bed."

"Oh, yes. Absolutely right."

"Come on...up we go." He grasped her upper arms and tugged lightly, relieved when she stood more or less on her own power. There was a moment when she nearly overbalanced but he grabbed her and held her steady.

"G'night," she said, beginning to wobble in the direction of the door. "You?"

"In a few minutes..." he returned, waving her on her way.

Standing up was uncomfortable, and really tiring. Hitting the deck once again, he found that his cigarette was almost all ash. Oh, well. He thought about lighting a new one...and picked up the Roy and Janice papers instead. After all, he'd gone more than twenty-four hours without thinking about this stuff.

Through the lens of alcohol, Janice's neat script was slightly blurred but still plenty legible. He started to read it, skipping to the second paragraph.

I knew it wouldn't work, what Roy was proposing and I said so. That was when Casey saw me and Roy started this whole routine about how we could be a family. It made me want to be sick. Casey wanted nothing to do with me either and I don't blame him for that. We'd only had one other interaction and I had been very hostile to him. Roy seemed to think he could convince him, though, and I didn't believe it. I didn't want it. I thought if I forced the issue Roy would blink and then we'd go home. So I went into the hotel bar to wait while Roy did whatever he was going to do to persuade Casey. I knew what they were doing together, of course. I drank as much as I could, as fast as I could.

He stopped reading. After all that he had done to get these words, they were still void of real meaning. Closing his eyes, he once again envisioned the scene; it arose almost unbidden, as though it were lying in wait, as though he really was being snatched back to the event itself and not sitting here in the middle of the night attempting to combine everything he knew into a singular act of cognition. He could see the room through those cold, judging eyes, hear those frigid tones. He could even experience the event from within her brittle headspace. Applying all of his imaginative talents, he could be Janice, standing in today's hotel room...reliving another hotel room of five months ago.

She says, "This isn't going to work."

And she can't keep her disgust out of her voice. Roy is sitting down with Casey, holding him and stroking him, crooning to him as though he's some kind of pet. For all Roy knows she could feel just as much as that inside, she just has the poise not to show it and Roy will never figure that out. All Roy sees is his little toy — that not- male, not-anything face, those bizarre eyes. He doesn't look or act like a man. It's repulsive to watch.

See now, how Roy is holding the creature's face against him, not letting him look, as though she were the bizarre, perverted thing, not him. This disgust isn't about men being with men, she is quick to tell herself. She is open-minded, but she feels like she is watching mutants dance and rub against each other, they are so strange with their high emotions and their extremes.

And now Roy is laying it on so thick, she wants to vomit. Saying "Don't look, don't look until you believe what I'm saying...Janice loves you, Janice wants to be with you too" but the creature is not stupid at least. A single eye peers away from Roy's shirt, glassy with horror, and he says, "No" and she is intensely relieved.

Shaking his head, Zeke threw off Janice for the moment.

Maybe it hadn't happened that way, exactly. Maybe she really did want the threesome to happen, maybe she did have some desire — a desire to win. Her filter for everything was dignity, her constant terror that the world would discover how she was in over her head. How appalled and vulnerable she must have felt upon realizing that she had gone and fallen in love with her fiancee, then husband. If Zeke had been inclined to be generous towards her, he might have added her to the list of Roy's victims. Like many, she was helpless before the onslaught of Roy's charm, and Casey was that thing that she couldn't endure — the rival with the greater claim.

Yeah, she had wanted something out of Casey...If she couldn't have Roy, she would have revenge.

She knows this is insanity. She's ready to quit now. She says so but Roy protests. His lashes flutter like he's entering a trance state while his hands close on the creature's body. He is almost humming as he tells her to go away, let him handle this. She watches his eyes darken, knows exactly what he means. She has a vision of the two of them on the bed. She sees two faces twisted up in ecstacy, hears the sound of flesh slapping on flesh and Roy's cries: "Casey...Casey...Casey."

Her heart fills up with hatred. She stares at the toy's limpid, lowered eyes, his pretty skin and she hopes that it hurts when Roy sticks his cock in him. She agrees to go downstairs to the lounge so that Roy can do the handling, not that the creature will ever agree to it. She certainly wouldn't.

And she had gone downstairs, leaving Casey alone with Roy, and when she came back he was broken...just like she'd hoped. She would have gotten in that bed just to seal her victory and realized not even halfway through how hollow it was.

Hollow just like reading her words on the page. The way she told it, she'd been tugged along by anger and circumstance. Roy had even said it himself — they would never know if she had been driven by jealousy that was transformed into resignation, or if at some point during the proceedings she had stolen a moment to wallow in malicious enjoyment before, appalled at herself, she called a halt to it.

And, Zeke realized, he didn't much care.

His head was spinning, a gentle, dizzy motion that begged for him to lie down. He didn't know why he was still trying to be awake and struggling through this shit, but he fought the call of sleep, lit up a fresh smoke and turned the page to Roy's section of the document. He read about Roy reclined there on the bed in the hotel room, four months ago, waiting and knowing that Casey would show up. Not surprised or even relieved when there was the knock at the door because he knew that Casey had nowhere else to go.

He sits up swiftly, a hungry smile on his face, as Janice turns from the window. Their eyes meet and he is enraged all over again...how dare she try to take Casey from him, how dare she...

He goes to the door and is ready to open his arms to Casey — but he is startled by Casey's extreme distress. He has seen Casey in all kinds of hysteria over the past two years but this is a bit off-putting. Obviously that Zeke has been doing something to his Casey and it really is time for Casey to come home with him. This thing with Janice could even work. They could be a family. Anything is possible with Casey, after all. He never says 'no'.

And he is not about to let his Casey be lost to him. He is threatened on all sides now — from Janice, from this Zeke, from Sasha earlier and even from Casey, who it turns out does have one line that he won't cross. He considers himself lucky that this Zeke has been too stupid to stake his claim. Zeke doesn't seem to realize what it takes to hold Casey. Stupid boy, small-town yokel hiding behind his little boy fears. Stupid Zeke Tyler...now Zeke will be erased from Casey, fucked right out of him.

There is no resistence as he undresses Casey. Casey whimpers for him, doing everything he can to help him along even though he seems weak and sick. He has a mark on his arm that Roy didn't put there. Casey is in bad shape, poor baby. After this he will take Casey home, take care of him and Casey will never, ever want to leave him. With his father dead, Casey can even live with him in the big house in the country.

He explains all this to Casey. How it will be just the two of them. They only have to do this once with Janice and then it will be them forever. Casey stops protesting and moves into his hands, is moulded into the position that he likes and he gets him ready with a bit of saliva and then pushes inside. He is welcomed at every moment, at every inch. He feels like he is being lost, drawn down, that Casey is swallowing him up. There is an instant, just an instant when his heart claws for freedom. When it is over he is coming, crowing with omnipotence —

With a disgusted exclamation, Zeke threw the pages down on the deck. It served no purpose to dwell on this, and he wouldn't, just like he wouldn't dwell on the thoughts of Casey with Thomas. He wouldn't obsess over where and how it had happened — the two of them crammed in a back seat or an alleyway, or in the apartment, Casey and Thomas naked in his bed. Unless he was prepared to ask, he was not going to think about it.

It came back to him that he was supposed to be working on forgiving Casey. That was what he was working on here, wasn't it, and he wasn't having the greatest success. He had read all of these pages through twice now, and heard the story told twice from Roy, once from Janice. And he still didn't know what had happened to Casey, not really, because he couldn't be in Casey's head. He'd been in Roy's; he'd been in Janice's. He'd experienced that event over and over now, but not as Casey had experienced it. The fact of it was that he was never going to know. Even if Casey someday took the time and trouble to try and explain it, he wouldn't know. There was something about it that belonged to Casey absolutely, and Casey just wasn't going to share it —

But there was an idea taking shape out of his alcoholic haze, rising above the rational mechanism that was still cranking and sputtering.

There was no such thing as perfect understanding. If there was, if it was possible to achieve perfect empathy, such an act could only destroy Casey — the Casey, the one who was essentially puzzling and challenging and felt all sorts of things that he didn't attempt to put into words. To not know him was to love him.

"Fuck," Zeke whispered.

To not know him was to save him.

Zeke collected the pages that were slightly scattered around him. He placed them in the bowl that he had been using as an ashtray and flicked on his lighter. He brought it in close to the paper, holding it near enough that they might catch at any moment.

No cold voice sounded in his head to stop him, or to start him on some crazed, reckless quest for knowledge. He might be drunk, but he was grateful for this clarity. In vodka veritas. No truth in these pages, nothing to be done with this disgusting litany of events except get revenge against the wrong person because he was feeling more than he had ever believed he would feel, and it caused him pain, and he had wanted someone to blame for it. This was not about forgiveness, or acceptance. It was about possession.

"Okay, already, okay," he muttered, not sure who he was talking to. "I give up..."

The orange and yellow flames took hold, and the paper was quickly consumed, leaving ashes and charred fragments.

 

After a sleep that was far too short and far from quality, he woke with a head that wanted to split in two and a gurgling, burning, empty stomach — a frequent occurrence lately, it seemed. He rolled onto his back and restrained a moan.

It occurred to Zeke that he would prefer to be in his own bed, in Seattle. The perpetual grey skies would suit his current state of physical well-being much better than this bright, cheery sunshine. Fuck it — now that the obligations were satisfied, he just really wanted to go home, and not in the least because was ready to confront Casey with his forgiveness, armed with a written confession of sorts —

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

This couldn't be happening.

Zeke did not howl, although it felt so much like the right idea. There was no question that he might have dreamed it; he really had burned Roy's Confession. He was the World Champion Fucktard.

Of course he remembered why he'd done it; he had not blacked out or anything. The reasoning had been sound enough but how that lead inevitably to the destruction of something he'd worked so hard to obtain for himself... well, only a drunken idiot could know the answer to that. If only that same idiot could have been run over by a bus on his way home last night. He might be in the hospital recovering, or permanently disfigured, but at least the pages would still exist.

Roy was laughing at him now, the fuck.

Zeke heard voices downstairs, probably in the kitchen. Having breakfast — or lunch, he amended, seeing the time. Okay, so first things first...He would deal with his hangover and then he would try to figure out what therapeutic steps were necessary to prevent himself from shooting himself in the head. He forced himself to rise from his bed, tottering forward into the day.

Not five minutes later he appeared downstairs, having performed the minimal acts of pissing and brushing his teeth. Melissa and Jacob were dressed, eating fruit and bagels, and they were disgustingly chipper for people who couldn't have slept much. To Zeke's jaundiced satisfaction, however, Chloe was sitting there looking plenty rough.

"We were just about to check and make sure you were alive!" Melissa welcomed him.

"Um," Zeke responded.

"How are you feeling?"

"Ugly." Zeke spotted the empty wine bottle out on the patio along with Melissa's bowl that held the remains of Roy's and Janice's confession.

"Me ugly too," Chloe deadpanned. She was presiding over a bowl of mushy- looking cereal. "Unk."

Zeke slid into a chair several feet away from the lot of them. "Do you have any aspirin?"

"Sure," Melissa said, going off to fetch them. She was smiling far too much for Zeke's peace of mind. Zeke didn't think she'd be smiling when she discovered what he'd done to her bowl.

"You hurting?" Zeke said to Chloe.

"God, yes."

"Good. It's all your fault."

"How do you figure that?"

"Dunno. Just ‘cuz."

Melissa returned with a bottle of Aleve. After downing a couple he was able to focus on the next most imminent source of discomfort — his stomach. He could deal with the fact that he was an unbelievable fucking idiot later.

"You want to make it up to me?" he asked Chloe.

"Why? What?"

"Take me on a junk food run."

"We have all sorts of food here," Melissa began.

"No, sorry...I need grease."

"I'm not even dressed," protested Chloe.

"Neither am I. Just to a drive-through?"

"I'll take you," Jacob announced.

Zeke gave Chloe one more hopeful look and she just waved a limp, wan hand. He gave up and followed his father out of the house and into yet another gorgeous day. He really had to wonder how people got any work done, living in this climate. Sliding into the passengers' side of the four-runner, he was very happy to not be driving.

As they pulled out from under the house's tree-lined drive-way, he noted that he was missing his sunglasses. He created a shield over his eyes with his hand, fighting back a random scream.

"You had a good time?" Jacob asked.

Zeke answered, "Yeah." Which was true. The worst parts had been merely tedious and the encounters with Rachel were only a few minutes altogether. The rest of it had been fun, notwithstanding the disastrous culmination of too much vodka and too few brain cells. "Chloe is cool," he added.

"You two did seem to hit it off." Jacob treated Zeke to a sideways grin. "Mel and I are really pleased about that."

"Well, what's not to like?" Zeke grumbled.

"Yes, she is a wonderful girl..." Jacob directed the vehicle onto a street that was dotted on both sides with fast food joints, plazas, family restaurants and other enterprises. "Where'd you want to stop?"

"Um...I'll holler." Zeke was surveying, trying to decide what suited his stomach most at the moment. Something with a lot of fat and very little of nutritional merit, that was a given. Through the forest of commercial signage, he spotted his destination. "There's a White Castle."

"Oh, no, Zeke."

"Oh, yes, Zeke."

"In all good conscience, as your father — "

"My stomach and I are both grown-ups, we can be as reckless and self- destructive as we want."

Jacob shook his head, biting his lips. "Melissa wouldn't be happy."

"Yeah, well she's not here. And this is hangover medicine." Zeke had yet another lousy realization in a day that was shaping up to be nothing but lousy. Like he needed further proof of his fucktardedness. "Shit. I didn't even bring my wallet."

"It's okay," Jacob sighed. "I'll get it since I didn't feed you enough last night."

They turned into the White Castle drive-through. Zeke ordered ten hamburgers along with fries and orange soda, and began eating them the moment they were in his lap.

"Whoa, there," Jacob admonished. "Remember to chew."

"Yes, sir." Zeke rolled his eyes. And he noticed that Jacob kept glancing over at the burger he was eating, even as he steered and accelerated and braked. "Do you want one?"

Jacob's gaze snapped forward. "Oh, no. No, no."

"I'll never tell, I swear." In his current dark mood, Zeke liked the idea of subverting his father's will. "Just one, Jacob."

"You're a bad influence."

"I try."

"All right, but I have to pull over somewhere. I won't eat while driving. I used to do that a lot and it wasn't a good thing."

Zeke shrugged, and waited until Jacob had pulled into the the nearest gas station parking lot before unwrapping a burger and handing it over. They ate in silence, while Zeke half-listened to the classical music coming through the speakers and tried to manufacture a state of not-thinkingness. By the time he was done eating, his stomach felt better at least. As for the rest of his misery...there was no helping it. He was fucked by his own fucking hand.

Jacob was licking his fingers. "I haven't eaten one of those in years," he told Zeke.

"You've been deprived."

"Melissa thinks all junk food is evil. She won't have it in the house and she won't let me eat it, ever."

"She and Sasha should talk."

Sasha. Zeke wondered what Sasha would make of everything Zeke had done since he last saw him. He had a not-so-funny feeling that Sasha would have approved of the burning ceremony — but only after he'd read the pages himself.

"Thank you for doing what you did last night, Zeke."

At another time, Zeke would be glad that Jacob and Melissa's relationship seemed to have not taken any harm from the dancing incident. It would feel good to know he was able to protect something. At the moment, however, he didn't give a flying fuck. "Don't mention it," he grunted.

"She just strolled up and asked and I couldn't think of a polite way to say no."

"You could try just saying no."

"You're right. But she seemed so...lonely."

It was then that the idea came into Zeke's head, springing spontaneously to life out of sheer nothing: Forgiveness and understanding were two different things. He really could do either, or both. Or neither. Forgiveness didn't have to be an act of kindness, and understanding could be downright cruel.

The notion was not without precedent; there was a muddled collection of thoughts that bore some similarity to it. Through his intoxicated haze last night, he'd made a fairly holistic leap and now, in a more clear-headed state, he could articulate it: If he were relentless enough, resolute and tough and willing to smash through whatever resisted his acts of comprehension, he would eventually have something completely dissected and open to him but it wouldn't be the thing he started out with. He would take the life from it even as he forced it to give up its secrets.

I don't want to hurt him...even if he hurt me first.

As always, there was his more jaded, dry voiced self: Still, Zekie, you didn't have to burn the thing...it's not like he'll even know about your magnificent gesture.

Jacob glanced over at Zeke. "Do you have a napkin there?"

Zeke handed one over.

"I don't know if it's possible to destroy all the evidence," Jacob said, wiping his hands and mouth with a little more vigour than was necessary or useful. "She'll probably smell it on me."

"Just say the smell from the bag contaminated the car."

"I'll try...but she has a nose like...like I don't know." Jacob trailed away, looking at Zeke in a way that meant some unmanly sort of mush was en route. "Zeke, I'm really, really happy that you decided to come."

"It's okay."

"And I know you've got a lot going on in your life...it means a lot to me that you still came."

"It's okay," Zeke said again.

Jacob put the car in gear. "What do you want to do today? There's still time for some sight seeing. We can do anything you like."

"Um...I don't know." His gut tugged, telling him he should be going home. "I need to call Seattle when we get back."

"Oh! I forgot...Casey called this morning."

Zeke figured his head must be swivelling as though he were possessed by demons, and he was possessed by something, that was for sure: It was the desire to kill his father. He'd gotten past the little manipulation he'd discovered last night but this was too fucking much... "You forgot? He called and you didn't call me?"

"It was early, you were sleeping."

"You still should have got me up!" Zeke growled. "And why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm telling you now," Jacob returned, as cool as — as a man who was accustomed to bullshitting for a living, it so happened.

"You waited on purpose, though."

"You've only been up for forty-five minutes, Zeke, and frankly, it wasn't in my head that I needed to tell you immediately."

"What did he say?"

"Not much. He just asked to speak to you. I would have thought he'd say congratulations or something — "

"What did you tell him?"

"I see I should have made a transcript."

"What did you tell him?!"

"I told him you were sleeping and he just said ‘oh' and then he asked me to let you know that he called. And that's it."

"How did he sound?"

Jacob sighed. "Like he always does."

"What's that? What do you mean by that?"

"That he sounded scared."

Fuck, how long — how many hours since Casey had called? Enough for anything to happen. Casey had been abandoned by him at the airport and no doubt believed that Zeke hated him. Yet he had called Jacob's house, looking for Zeke. That must mean he was desperate and something bad was going down. There was no other possible interpretation.

Zeke's mind was consumed by the need to get to the phone. He could barely wait for the car to come to a stop in the driveway; he was up and out before the vehicle could entirely lose its momentum. He negotiated a series of straight lines and efficient curves to get to the phone in the kitchen, only half-noticing the presence of Chloe and Melissa. He snatched up the thing.

And once again, there was no answer when he called. Subduing the rising panic, he left another message:

"Hi, it's Zeke. I heard you called. I'm coming home early. I'll call again and let you know when I arrive. If you're trying to call, my cell number right now is 818-555- 7801."

He turned and found three pairs of round eyes pointed at him.

"You're leaving?" Melissa asked, just as he disconnected the chili pepper.

"I'm going to pack and get on my way to the airport, yes. Hopefully I can get on a flight today."

"But..." Melissa faltered. "I thought..."

Jacob was standing next to her now, having followed Zeke in more slowly. "Zeke," he urged. "Please don't go, stay until Wednesday like you planned. It's only the day after tomorrow."

"No. I need to go."

"If there were an emergency you can be sure you'd know about it by now."

"Not necessarily." There were all sorts of ways that a disaster could unfold that would have left him out of the loop. The fact was that he'd been fucking lying to himself the past couple of days so that he could enjoy cavorting with a pretty girl at a dance. "I don't know what's going on."

"Wait and try to call again at least. You're probably just having bad luck getting through. They could have gone out or something."

"Or something is wrong." Zeke started for the exit to the hallway which would take him to the stairs.

"Zeke — please, think about what you're doing."

He turned, one hand on the wall. "And what am I doing?"

"Zeke," Melissa started. "I think — "

"Don't you even try to come over all parental on me."

"You don't need to attack her," Jacob said coldly.

"Okay, fine," Zeke retorted. "You going to tell me not to get too involved, Jacob? Been there, done that. I've been around and around in my head about it and the only thing I do know is that you don't have a fucking clue about my life!"

Melissa started as he reached the climax of that speech. She began to edge away, glancing at her daughter like she wanted to grab her and run for cover.

"I'm sorry," Zeke said to her, to both women in the room. "I'm not mad at you — or you, Chloe. I like you both just fine, but the fact is none of you know what I'm dealing with. If I say I have to go then you wish me bon voyage and hope everything works out."

He made it as far as the first stair before Jacob caught him, taking his arm.

"No, that's not all!" Jacob let go, with a wave of what appeared to be regret for having grabbed him. "Maybe I'd have a clue if you told me."

"Oh, no. It is not that easy, Jacob. You take off for ten years and think you can just stroll back in with an apology? It doesn't work that way."

"I know all that. I just hoped..."

"Hoped what?"

"That we could put things behind us...have it all out."

"I don't need to have anything out. What I do need is a ride to the airport but if I can't get that from you I'll manage on my own. Like always."

He whirled and went up to his room, hoping that Jacob wouldn't follow. Of course, the sound of feet followed him all the way up.

"Why did you come here?" Jacob asked, standing just inside the door while Zeke tossed things into his suitcase. Tux, tie, shoes, dirty socks and underwear, all of it went in the heap. "For a free meal and a party — ? I don't think so."

"Honestly? I came here because I was pissed off and needed some time to myself. Now I'm not so pissed off and I'd like to go home."

"Bullshit. You're furious."

"I meant not so pissed off at Casey. Obviously I'm still pissed off at you. On top of everything else, you deliberately didn't tell me he called! Admit it, Jacob, because I'm not stupid!"

"Okay, yes. But I meant to tell you today...which I did. I just didn't think you needed to know first thing."

"You think he's bad news."

"I think you think about him too much." Jacob caught himself, shaking his head. "But I'm not allowed to discuss this subject, am I? Your rules — unless you're giving me a dispensation to talk."

Fucking lawyers. Out loud, Zeke answered, "Go ahead, man. I brought it up, astonish me with your insight."

"You want to do this right now?"

"It's probably our last shot at it, so yeah."

Jacob went silent suddenly. He stared at Zeke uneasily, reverting back to the non-communicative version of himself that was much more familiar to Zeke.

"I'll help you get started then," Zeke said. "Let's see... Casey is sucking me dry, I'm going to waste my life with him, he'll never change and I'm just clinging to him because I'm a co-dependent idiot...right? Which is something you understand intimately, of course."

Jacob blinked, unfazed by the implied insult. "That's part of it."

"What did I miss?"

"Of course I don't want you to make the same mistakes I did but there's more...there's something unhealthy about your relationship with him and it goes back to Herrington three years ago. It's like the two of you are stuck in your secret little world and no one else can get in."

"Is that supposed to be a surprise? We lived through something scary."

"Oh, Zeke, really. Alien invasion? Couldn't you make up something more plausible?"

"Why would I make that up?"

"To cover for Casey, I assume."

Zeke hadn't quite expected this, even though it was a line of logic he was quite familiar with. "You think Casey is some sort of dangerous criminal. You think it was all him and the rest of us just lied to cover it up."

"I'm not without compassion for him, Zeke. Whatever it was I'm sure he didn't know what he was doing but you shouldn't have to let yourself be all twisted up because of it."

"Fuck, you know — you and Rachel really are two of a kind! I told you exactly how it happened. You and Rachel were the only ones I told — and what response did I get? You both looked at me like I was a piece of shit and then you disappeared without a word for three fucking years!"

"I refuse to believe — "

"Aliens invaded, Jacob. That's the truth — and I let Casey go out on a limb, I didn't back him up the way I should have. I was a coward... an entire town full of people and he was the only brave one of the lot of us, the only person with the nerve to tell the truth. Fucking backward stupid fucking town...and then they went and made me the hero and Casey the monster."

"God, Zeke, will you just stop?"

"What do you want me to do? Lie? Make up a story about how the aliens never actually came here and never actually tried to take over?"

"It couldn't have happened like you said! You couldn't have — " Jacob cut himself short.

"I couldn't have what?"

"You're not violent, Zeke. You were a lot of things but you were never violent."

"But you don't know me, Jacob. I helped to exterminate them...like I explained to you before, remember? You must remember the part where I put a gun right between my principal's eyes and fired? She just dropped like a broken doll, you know... and I made the poison that finished her off."

"Oh, God."

"I told you all this before, Father. You listened and acted like you gave a damn but then you just ran for cover — and I guess I can't blame you. I was a creep who didn't give a damn about anything — until Casey, that is. I still don't give a damn about much of anything. All this shit — " Zeke swept a hand around, indicating the house, the wedding, the very idea of family. "I don't give a fuck about it. All I care about is him." He thought he was finished, but just moments later he continued, in the knowledge that there was plenty more to be said. "You know, I was afraid that I take after you that way but it occurs to me that I've bested you a hundred times over in the obsession game. You have no idea the lengths that I'll go to — that I have gone to." He observed, with a certain amount of delight, the depth of pain in his father's face. "Now I'm going to pack. If you'll excuse me."

It took him less than half an hour to get organized. He dressed, foregoing the shower that he needed and the shave that was probably recommended. The whole time an old, almost-forgotten line of Sasha's kept up a singsong in his head. You can't go home again, you can't go home again, you can't —

When he presented himself in the kitchen there was no sign of Jacob, nor of Melissa. Chloe was there, however, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans. "It's New Year's Day, do you think you'll be able to get a flight?" she asked.

"I don't know. I'll go stand-by if I have to."

"I'll drive you, then."

His eyes stung. "You sure?" he muttered, refusing to rub them.

"Of course," she scoffed.

"Where's Jacob?"

"I'm not sure. He was very upset, he and Mom took off somewhere."

It was a quiet drive. She let him off at the airport and was understanding enough not to come in and linger with him. Parked temporarily in the drop-off zone, she waited until he had loaded up his bags on a dolly and then gestured to him. He leaned in towards her; she reached up and gave him brief hug, a haphazard curl of her arm around his neck, then pressed a piece of paper into his.

"What's this?"

"My email and phone number."

"What for?"

"To keep in touch, dummy."

Fuck if he wasn't going gooey again. "Um...Chloe..."

"Forget it. I just hope everything works out." Chloe grinned, and then turning from him, drove away. Zeke stared after her for a few moments and then tucked the piece of paper in his jeans pocket.

He learned that by going stand-by he could probably get on a flight that was leaving at five, unless it unexpectedly filled. The airline lady told him it was unlikely to get full, however; most people had their plans for New Year's settled well in advance.

At three-thirty, they called and gave him the good news — he was on the flight. The rest was becoming routine. Standing in line to check in, going through security, the entire business...He was switched off for most of it. He put his metal items in the plastic container and let them pat him down. He watched dully as they took everything out of his carry-on bag and put it back in, then waited for the scanner to spit it out at the other end. Then he walked directly to his gate, pausing only long enough to buy a coffee. He thought about his phone, thought about using it and perhaps getting through this time — but he was having sensations that he could only admit as fear. If it was something really bad and he had to sit here waiting and useless for hours, he would lose it once and for all.

So he found himself sitting once again amongst a row of interconnected airport chairs, staring at nothing and having accomplished nothing. He bent over, putting his head in his hands, and waited for the announcement that he was going home.


	9. Chapter 9

The phone of Dr. Helen Yves rang, and again rang, and now still it rang while Casey abided desperately at the other end. No answer, she wasn't fucking answering and he must not have gotten this right after all. Or maybe he had dialled right but that sequence wasn't hers, because she wasn't so stupid as to give that kind of information to a freak like him, she was a professional who kept her life separate from those of her patients.

At last, someone picked up. "Hello?" said a young child of non-specific gender.

But she wouldn't have lied about something like that, would she? No, she wouldn't jerk him around. If she hadn't wanted to give him her home phone number, she would have just said so.

"Are you there?" asked the little boy-girl at the other end. "Hello?"

"Uh...h-hi. May I..." His hands had become unsteady he had to clutch the phone to ensure that it didn't fall out of his grip. "...s-speak to...Helen Yves?"

"Just a minute." The child shouted into Casey's ear: "Gramma! It's for you!"

This was followed by not quite dead air — a hum, and the soft, vague scrapes of sound — while Casey reeled with the knowledge that Dr. Yves was a grandparent. It did make some sense, and she was certainly old enough, but he had never imagined her having an ordinary existence outside the office. For some reason it seemed improbable to him that she would go shopping for dolls and candy to spoil the grandkids, or chit-chat with a friend or husband about things like roof repair and what to have for dinner. She couldn't do all that and yet she must. He saw her now, dressed in whatever polyester abomination she wore for leisure, curled up on the couch with a bowl of popcorn maybe, getting ready to watch The Lion King or...or...god, fuck, his brain was blanking and no way would he be able to speak to her and make sense. He might as well hang up now.

"What is it?" Casey's dad asked. "What's happening?"

It was an effort to raise his head and look at the man who was not budging from his sentinel position beside the bed. Frank Connor appeared more or less as he ever did — only a bit more flushed in the face than usual, and Casey couldn't know what to expect from him. He did know the Frank Connor who had given him disgusted stares across the family dinner table, the man whom night after night would become one with his recliner in front of the TV. That man's actions, Casey could easily predict. This other version of Frank Connor did things like apologizing to his gay son, and kicking down bathroom doors to prove that he cared. This guy was pretty much a question mark.

The paradox of his father's behaviour was something Casey just couldn't process at the moment; he cast his eyes down again, catching them on the crumpled blankets and sheets. Trying to distract himself, he started stroking some of the ridges and valleys with his hand, working them smooth — just as there was a crackling and motion across the line, the sort of noises that presaged someone picking up the phone. He only had time for a quick gulp of air and then she was speaking to him.

"Helen Yves."

The cadence of those few syllables said she would make sense of the nonsense, cut through the chaos — and oh, how he wanted to believe it. Well, there was no question that she would try. People always tried according to their best judgment. He just had to wonder what this round of helping would feel like, if it would hurt as much as Zeke's recent efforts. If so, he wasn't sure that he would survive it.

"Hello?" she said, a bit more loudly.

"Dr. Yves," he croaked, unable to prevent himself from tumbling headlong into the trap. It might very well turn out to be his worst mistake, letting himself be helped by her. Maybe this was just what she had waited for, him giving her that much power. Slap the alien-boy with a committal and a straightjacket, shut him up so They can take over the world in peace...

"Casey?"

"Yeah — 'm sorry, you're busy — "

She sounded completely serene, unperturbed by his evident distress. "It's all right, Casey. What's going on?"

"I..." he faltered, his throat clogged with word matter. Suddenly there was ambivalent support for him in the form of a meaty grip on his shoulder; the unanticipated touching jarred him, made him tremble. Still, he didn't wish to reject it so he stayed put somehow and stammered, "Dr. Yves, I...I'm..."

"Yes, Casey. Go on."

"You don't mind?"

"Just tell me what's wrong."

"I'm...I'm scared."

"Why are you scared?"

"I just...I mean, Zeke left and... and since then I've been... having thoughts that scare me..."

"What sort of thoughts, Casey?"

There were no words to describe the kind of infernal black that had taken up residence within him, to articulate how it felt to contemplate choices that were all bad, all terrifying, trying to formulate a new route of escape while the old strategies — ignoring, obliviating, avoiding — weren't feasible anymore and even if they had been, even if he could ignore the awfulness for a while it would still be there waiting when he came back. He wouldn't escape it because the reality was that he was the sludge. Embrace himself or stop being himself, those were the options.

"Casey? What sort of thoughts are you having?"

"Like...it hurts too much and I..." Casey squeezed his eyelids shut, longing for a proper void in which to lose himself. "Like I'm nothing, like I'm...so filthy..."

"Did you hurt yourself, Casey?"

"No."

"Were you thinking about hurting yourself?"

Still in his makeshift darkness, he whispered, "I was thinking about ways to do it but — but I'm scared. I don't want to die, it just hurts so much...I don't know what to do."

Far outside him, his father's presence remained. The hand clamped down even harder, the pressure on his shoulder increasing to a welcome discomfort.

"Is there anyone with you now, Casey?"

"Yes...my dad."

"He's there right now?"

"S-standing here...he came back with me, after...after Christmas."

That last word nearly choked him. "Christmas" had become a terrible sound, a cacophony of everything that had happened since he had last spoken to her. It was his disastrous behaviour, it was his lies, his betrayal of Zeke...It was Zeke telling him he wanted to go to Los Angeles by himself, basically wanting Casey out of his sight. Casey thought he might gag on the discord of his emotions; he pressed a fist against his mouth, trying not to sob out loud.

"And Sasha?" Dr. Yves asked.

"He — he had to go to work — " Casey bit down on his knuckle, relishing the focus that it provided, and stared at a point on the computer desk. A piece of crumpled cellophane, probably from a package of Zeke's cigarettes, became his focal point. "He had to, Dr. Yves, he's going to lose his job — and it'll be my fault — "

"That's not true," his father muttered, his fingers flexing on Casey's shoulder.

"What about Zeke?" asked Yves. "You said he left."

"He — he went to Los Angeles."

"That was planned, was it not?"

"Yeah...but I was supposed to go with him."

"He will be back in a few days, though?"

Forcing himself to utter what he didn't believe, he answered, "He said he was coming back but it doesn't matter, he..." hatesmehatesmehatesmesorryforwhatIdid toolatetoolatefor sorry... "Dr. Yves..."

"Yes, Casey?"

"I'm sorry..." Hmm, well, wasn't that was fucking repetitive...and he knew he was making too many apologies, people always got annoyed by that but he couldn't tell from her voice how she felt, never could tell when she might be angry at him. She sounded just as she always did so she really could be feeling anything right now. Anger seemed quite likely as far as he was concerned...especially when he'd called her home, invaded her personal life.

"For what?"

His throat was so tight, he could barely slip words past it. "For — bugging you at home wh-when you're on holiday."

"It's all right, Casey. I'm very glad you called, you did the right thing. That was why I gave you my number. Now tell me...are you thinking you still might hurt yourself in some way?"

"I...I don't know."

"Let me put it this way...do you have a plan?"

"A plan?"

"Have you chosen a method of killing yourself, have you organized the means...?"

"Not really...I started looking through the medicine cabinet but I just...realized I couldn't..." Casey relived the horror of imagining how his father and Sasha would feel upon discovering that he had let them down and how, yes, even Zeke would suffer. They would all be consumed by guilt, even over such a thing as he was, because they had wanted to help him. They were invested in him...and hopelessly fucked as he was, that made them double fucked.

"All right," came Yves' brisk voice, unaware that he was dissolving in tears yet again. "Here's what I want you to..." As she spoke he let the phone fall away from his ear; it remained in his hand, lying limp against his thigh. In a moment or two Yves' voice sounded audibly, carrying across Seattle. "Casey...are you there? Casey?"

His father spoke softly, kneading his shoulder. "She's trying to talk to you, Casey."

He shook his head for no good reason, just to convey his general state of despair, and lifted the phone to his ear. "Dr. Yves..."

"Casey? I was afraid that you had hung up."

"I'm h-here."

"Don't give up on yourself, Casey, we can work through this." Dr. Yves paused, probably waiting for him to agree and when he didn't she prompted, "You believe that, don't you?"

"Guess so."

"I do wish that we had discussed what we would do in this sort of situation before you went away, but that's okay. We'll just sort it out now — "

The outcome that he'd been dreading was now transforming from the possible to the probable. He could sense it, almost feel the restraints closing around his limbs as his body prepared to prove that it could still throw a very impressive panic party. "Don't, please," he blurted.

"What's that?" she said.

"Don't make me."

"Don't make you what, Casey?"

"I don't want to go to the hospital, I...I couldn't...please, don't."

Dr. Yves went quiet again, and he supposed that she was taking notes, keeping track for the review board. Or perhaps she was simply preparing to deliver the bad news...Sorry, Casey but you are clearly a danger to yourself... Sounding even more careful than the norm for her, Yves hedged, "A hospital would not be a bad idea. There are some very good clinics in Seattle that specialize in crisis and recovery..."

"No," he whispered.

She didn't miss a beat. "...and of course, there are two ways to get you into one of them. You could admit yourself voluntarily, or I could recommend an involuntary assessment of seventy-two hours, which could lead to a longer stay. I understand you have experience with this...last summer, yes?"

"I don't remember," he murmured, which was true. He had little recall of the events in question; his first clear memory was of waking up in the hospital and being told that he'd already been there for several days. He wouldn't deny that there were bits in his mind about doctors and nurses and emergency rooms, pieces of a lost narrative in which he'd barely been sentient, but he had no intention of acknowledging them for fear that it would be construed as agreement to a second round.

"Well," she responded, her tone unchanged. "To order that kind of assessment, I would need to believe that you are in imminent danger — and I'll be honest with you, Casey, some doctors wouldn't hesitate at this moment."

"But...what about you?"

"In terms of emotional and personal impact, there's a huge difference between me making the decision to commit you, and you admitting yourself. I would really prefer it if you chose to go in, even if just for a couple of nights — "

"I don't want to!" So many people, all strangers, all unpredictable and they would touch him whenever they thought it was necessary, he remembered that from before, the doctors and nurses and orderlies had always put their hands on him like they had a right to it. Clinic or hospital — whatever you called it, if he went there he would lose control sooner or later, and however it started it would end bad and then there'd be hands all over him, no one asking just doing what they thought was best...and They would get him for sure then because he'd be defenseless.

"I hear you, Casey," she said.

Casey shivered and heard the bed creak a little; he realized that he was rocking it with small, agitated pulses of motion, still crying and fuck if he wasn't beyond pathetic, not that she didn't know it and not that she couldn't hear him snivelling. He stilled himself as best he could. "Dr. Yves," he sniffled. "If I go there it will be bad... it won't help me. You know it won't."

Her sigh travelled clearly across the line. "All right. I admit I'm not sure that it would be the best place for you right now. But if you..."

Her words were lost in a white wave of reaction and he struggled to fight it down, to pay attention. He needed to act steady and sane, and that was act as in do whatever it took to make sure he didn't go to a hospital, he would die if that happened. "...are you with me, Casey?"

"Yeah," he said, wiping futilely at the damp of tears and snot. His father suddenly released his shoulder and lurched from the room. He stared after the retreating form with its turtleneck and knit shirt, finding that he wanted to call them back. "Sorry, I...what did you say?"

"I need you to listen to me, Casey. It's important that you're able to follow instructions and problem-solve with me on this."

"I'm sorry."

"It's all right. Are you listening now?"

"Yes."

"I want to see you tomorrow morning in my office. Will you do that?"

His father was back, and with a box of tissues; Casey snagged one and blew his nose. "Yeah."

"At...let's say at ten. I'm afraid I can't make it much earlier than that, I have my grandchildren here and I have to make arrangements...and I have to drive in."

"Kay."

"But you must promise me that between now and then you will do nothing to harm yourself. Will you promise me that, Casey?"

He nodded at first, then remembered that she couldn't see it and answered out loud, "Okay."

"Will you say it for me, please?"

"I promise I won't...hurt myself."

"Good. Now I'd like to speak to your father, please."

"Why?"

"I'm going to ask him to do some things to help you. I assume he's aware of what's going on right now?"

"Yes." Casey jerked the phone away from his ear, told his father, "She wants to talk to you."

At just about any other time in his life, his dad's response would have been quite funny; the older man's eyes grew to twice their normal size and he said, "She wants to talk to me?" just as he might have said, "The I.R.S. is auditing me?" But he willingly took the phone from Casey, sitting down beside him on the rumpled bed. "Hello? Yes, this is Frank Connor."

While his father took on the unwanted necessity of speaking to a psychiatrist, Casey hauled all his limbs into the smallest space possible. He wondered if he was in shock, or at least in hypothermia. Deep in the muscle and bone, he ached; he was weak to his core and exhausted from his brief conversation but as much as he longed for sleep, he knew there would be no rest for him tonight. Sleep was not the unequivocal retreat that it had once been, not when dreams were suddenly lurking there, taking moments and memories of profound and frightening beauty and turning them into straight-out horrors.

"Yes, I'm aware of it...uh huh...uh huh...I can do that...yes...all right...oh...oh...yes, all right..."

It was sounding like his father's part of the call was concluded — until he suddenly went quiet. Casey watched his father's body clench and his face diffuse to an alarming shade of almost-purple in response to whatever Yves was saying to him.

"I...uh...will," his father said, strangling those couple of syllables. "Thank you, Doctor...um, Yves." The phone was handed back to Casey. "Here."

Casey blinked at him and told himself that he didn't care to know what had had such an impact on his father. It was nothing to do with him.

"Casey?" said Dr. Yves' voice.

"Uh-huh."

"How do you feel now? Do you feel any more calm than before?"

"Yeah."

"That's good, but just as a precaution, I've asked your father to collect all the pills and medications in the house and flush them down the toilet...that's not including the Paxil and Klonopin, of course. You need to keep taking those."

"Okay," Casey whispered, not holding it against her. It was probably just as much to give his father something to do as anything else.

Yves continued, " I've also asked him to collect all the sharp objects he can find — but I'm counting on you here, Casey. I know how smart you are, and I know that if you were really determined, you could get around your father. It's important that you're committed to showing up tomorrow."

The seriousness of her tone was a definitive warning and he knew that he had to do better if he wanted to stay out of the hospital. "I..." he said, trying to force conviction into it. "... have to tell you something."

"What's that?"

"I feel better since talking to you, Dr. Yves."

"I'm very pleased to hear it, Casey, but it's still important to me that you make that promise to show up tomorrow. Because a lot of things can happen in a few hours, and I believe you when you say that you're hurting."

"But I...I'm not suicidal," he said, and pondered the enigma that he sounded offended when he didn't feel offended at all. If anything, he had the impression that she was perfectly in the right to be cautious. "Not really..."

"I understand you, Casey, but I have a professional responsibility in this situation. This isn't just about your physical safety, it's about what's best for your emotional well-being in the long run. I've told your father that if you appear to be in danger or if you do try anything that he is to call 9-1-1 immediately. If that happens, your situation could be out of my hands for quite some time...I don't think either of us wants that."

That sounded like a threat although he couldn't quite work out how. He wondered if it was proper for her to say this, and if she would divulge everything she knew of him when asked by these other, terrifying doctors, tell them that the kid was delusional, possibly violent. That was her prerogative, he supposed. Confidentiality would go by the wayside if and when it turned out that he was a dangerous and self- destructive monster.

"Do you understand, Casey?"

"Yes."

"Good. So you'll be there tomorrow."

"Yes."

"That's excellent. And I'd like your father to be at part of the session. Sasha too, if he can."

Casey glanced up at his father, who appeared to be deep in thought. "Oh."

"They don't need to be there the whole time. Essentially, what's going to happen tomorrow is that I will be assessing you to determine whether you should be at home or in a more controlled environment. The support you have from family and friends is a crucial part of that assessment."

Instantly, the seep of general exhaustion built up to a flood of panic. "But — you said you wouldn't — "

"I'm not forcing anything to happen right now. I can't make promises, but I'll tell you this. I'm not the kind of doctor who resorts to involuntary committal easily...only if it really is the only option left. I'll try other ways first, and the fact that we're having this conversation right now instead of me calling for help should tell you something. But I still have to see you in person and talk with you."

Panic crashed and despair drowned Casey. He should just give up, tell her to send the man with the straight-jacket. Once she found out everything, he would have to be shipped off for the "professional care" that his father and Sasha couldn't provide. And she would find out just about everything, regardless of what he was actually willing to tell her. For starters, he was sure that she understood things about him that he hadn't figured out himself. And, undoubtedly, she would discover how often he could snap and go medieval on anyone who brushed up against him, even inadvertently. Such as he had done to Winona

— although the W-Monster had been trying to take Zeke from him and she did hate him and it wasn't exactly an accident that she had been in his face, she'd put herself there and thought she could get away with it —

A warbling alerted him that he was being spoken to. "Um...what?" he asked.

Yves repeated herself patiently. "I said, I'm looking forward to seeing you at ten tomorrow, Casey. Try and get some sleep."

"Yeah," Casey echoed with bitter amusement. "Sleep."

"Good night, Casey. Take care."

"Yeah..."

Everything was all wrong — but too bad, so sad, too late because she had hung up and it would be off to the loony bin with him soon enough. He'd wanted her to make it all stop, and now she would do that one way or another. And to think that he'd set this in motion himself, god, but he was fucking brilliant. He should never have told her, never trusted her. Zeke had been right...

He thumbed the talk button, disconnecting.

Zeke Tyler was always right.

Except when he wasn't. Sometimes he was just an arrogant dictator with his You will go to therapy and you'll like it...you won't talk about the aliens...you will talk about your sex life but you won't have sex... you will tell me what happened to you and you will be the victim that I say you are... the fuck, how could he tell Casey what to do and what to tell his own therapist, how did he dare refuse sex to Casey after all the times Casey had been there for his use, made himself available and open at all times, shut off his opinions and his wants and his anger...yeah, it was a good thing Zeke wasn't here. If Zeke were here he'd punch him or otherwise make him bleed and...and...no, not make him bleed, not hurt Zeke when he missed and wanted Zeke so bad, he wanted Zeke to touch him, to fuck him again...so long since the last time now. Zeke hadn't been right about that, he hadn't...if Zeke hadn't decreed an end to their sex life everything would be different at this moment. It was Zeke's fucking fault he was so fucking fucked up.

"So..." his dad said.

"You'd better clean out the medicine cabinet," Casey blurted, and then some dark impulse that was just one more revelation to him took hold and squeezed out a further statement: "Not that there's much in there."

His father's eyes widened. He took a step even as he spoke — "You'll stay here?" With that step there was a grimace of discomfort, and that was when Casey comprehended that the lurch he had observed earlier was actually a limp. It looked like his father had damaged his foot kicking the door down, and if Casey understood that if he wanted to be generous he should really not move around too much. If he didn't let his poor parent keep track of him, the man might get the impression that he was plotting something.

"Dad," he murmured. Perverse as he was in most respects, he liked to think that he wasn't malicious. He had no desire to make his dad chase him with a bum foot. "You're hurt."

"I'll deal with it later," his father replied shortly, and proceeded with his mission.

Over the next several minutes Casey stayed put and listened to thumping and rummaging in the bathroom, then the kitchen...which inevitably involved the removal of Sasha's collection of knives. Never mind the damage to the bathroom door and the mess of wood splinters, Sasha was going to be mega-angry about his stuff being tampered with. Some of those utensils were top of the line and super-expensive, and Casey just hoped that his dad was merely hiding them somewhere, not disposing of them altogether. He couldn't imagine that his dad would be that stupid...but all the same Sasha was not going to be at all pleased that his equipment was being compromised. Sasha liked everything just so, a proverbial place for everything and everything in its place. Casey just didn't know what he could do about it. What he did know was that if he lost Sasha as well as Zeke then he was fucked, promises to Yves aside.

Very shortly, he heard what had to be the sound of pills being flushed down the toilet.

Casey inched backward on the unmade, mussed bed, compacting himself against the headboard. Maybe he should just run. Otherwise, by this time tomorrow he could be locked up for all time. Once the doctors conferred and compared notes they would see how it was meant to be — since he was a defective human being who couldn't manage alone — and he wouldn't have a fucking chance of getting out.

Shifting his head slightly, he spotted the phone lying a few feet away in a cleft between two ridges of bedspread.

Zeke hadn't forbidden him to call. He would be disgusted and revolted by Casey's weakness of course, but he hadn't forbidden it. And Casey just wanted to hear Zeke's voice...hear that maybe Zeke was not as angry with him now, maybe in a much better mood than he had been when he left him at the airport. Or if Zeke was not feeling more receptive it didn't matter, he would take whatever Zeke wanted to give him. Say what you like, do whatever you want, he would beg, just come back.

The phone leapt into his hand. Zeke's cell number seemed to glow out of the keypad, crying out for contact with his fingers. Once again, numbers and ringing ruled his world for a time...leading inexorably to the robotic recording that filled his ears: "The number you are calling is not in service."

Time continued on, well past the moment of devastation despite his best efforts to stop it. His vision cleared and found him amazed that he hadn't done something monstrous. When that haze lifted he should have been sitting amidst the shards of another destroyed phone, or a destroyed something — but he wasn't. He was still hanging there with the phone against his ear and the female drone driving it home.

"...the number you are calling is not in service...the number you are calling does not exist...the person you are trying to contact is unavailable because you, Casey Connor, are a lying, betraying piece of shit and it's nothing less than you deserve..."

And without Zeke, the burden of him would fall upon others, it would grow and expand until he was completely unmanageable. He couldn't stop it. He was nothing now that Zeke had left — but Zeke had left because he was nothing so it shouldn't be a surprise, hadn't Casey always been a piece of dirt fucking slag whore good for only one thing but still not good enough for her —

"...the number you are calling..."

With his forehead against his knees and the phone clutched against his heart, Casey battled the full volley of hysterical sobs that were rattling in his chest. The crazies were running amok with him now and he could only stay put, be a good boy and do as he was told. He could only try to last until tomorrow and surely now would be one of those moments when Xanax was okay, surely... You'll know when, Zeke had told his father and Casey figured his father only had to take a look at him and he'd know. Now was the time.

His father re-entered the room, slightly out of breath. "Okay," he said. "That's done." He saw Casey holding the phone pressed against his body. "Who were you talking to?"

"service, not in service, not in service...the number you are calling is..."

"No one," Casey whispered, and hung up, dropping the phone on the bed.

"So what now?" his father asked.

"Don't s-suppose you..."

"Don't suppose I what?"

"I — could I have — a Xanax?"

His father put on a confused expression. "Excuse me?"

"The Xanax. Little white fucking pills. Zeke gave them to you."

His father grimaced, cocking his head at a confused angle. "They're gone, Casey."

Casey found himself with his stomach flattened against his raised knees, as though he were guarding some gaping void. "Gone? What do you mean they're gone?"

"Dr. Yves said to flush all the pills."

"But not my medications," Casey said. The flatness of his voice surprised him.

Now his father wore an expression that was bewildered unto desperation. "She didn't mention Xanax, just the other two...anyway, I don't know if I would be comfortable giving you one of those...now."

Casey didn't comment on that, but not out of any noble impulse to recognize an honest mistake and appreciate that his father was just trying to help. There were simply too many ugly things in Casey's mind for him to sort them out and pick one. Hunching even further, he said, "I...never did..."

"What's that?"

It seemed that he was mumbling. He made the supreme effort to straighten up and to speak out. "Never did get my shower."

Rather than get alarmed, his father crossed his arms and said, "Ten minutes, that's it. And then I really think you should have something to eat."

"If you say so."

This transformed the parental mask of confusion to plain startlement.

Still cradling his belly, Casey intoned, "Can't starve myself overnight, can I? Might as well eat. And it's not like the bathroom door would keep anyone out." He knew very well he was being a shit, but he couldn't seem to stop it.

It took a few seconds, but his father answered, speaking in a voice that trembled. "Dr. Yves said that you might try to test me."

"Is that what I'm doing?"

"She also said I... I shouldn't let you push me around."

Somehow, Casey's brain was still trying to process the mystery of Frank Connor, chanting the words like that would make them into something he could accept as true...I shouldn't let you push me around. I shouldn't let you push me around... So then Casey had always been the abusive one by refusing to be a football-playing, muscle freak with the I.Q. of a jock strap, by insisting on being gay even after his father made it perfectly clear how he disapproved of it...and always saying and doing those horribly embarrassing things, talking about stuff he shouldn't talk about and getting their good family name in the news.

"Oh, right," he whispered. "I'm just such a bully."

"No, no, I didn't mean..." His father shook his head, opened and closed his mouth and his eyelids. "I'm not saying it right. She was talking about feeling guilty about...about things."

Casey considered a gracious response: But you don't need to feel guilty, Dad...except he didn't feel like telling that lie. "I'm going to have a shower," he declared, and prayed that his father wouldn't feel obliged to stand sentry in the bathroom.

Appearing resigned to his failure to communicate, his father nodded. "Ten minutes," he reiterated.

Casey nodded his compliance and edged off the bed, out of the room. From inside the bathroom, he watched as his father headed trustingly back to the other side of the apartment. The partly shattered, brutalized door wouldn't close properly, so Casey pushed it into as close a approximation of privacy as he could get. He stripped down and turned on the water.

His only desire at first was to get clean, to wash off the stink and the crud, but a few minutes into the process he noticed that Zeke had left behind a bottle of his shampoo with a small amount of product. Feeling like he had no power over the involuntary movement of his limbs, Casey snapped open the plastic cap and inhaled, and abruptly he was on the verge of screaming, to no real point except that he was more than a little fucking upset, that being him really blew, and it especially blew that Zeke would never hear what he shrieked: How could you, you have no right, how could you leave me you promised you promised no matter what you prick you asshole and now you change your number you could have been honest at least instead of letting me find out that way motherfucker I hate you, I hate you... No, it was his father who would have to hear and his father who would have to come running on his broken foot so Casey choked back the howls of rage, again shoving his fist against his mouth, and then used the last of the shampoo on his own hair.

Emerging from the bathroom some minutes later, he dressed in fresh clothes and felt marginally improved. At least he would not go reeking to his fate tomorrow.

After a dutiful report to the living room, he addressed himself to the sandwich, soup and tea that his father had laid out on the coffee table for him. It was like forcing sand down his throat. His father's mouth was twisted as though he was chewing something bitter himself; Casey realized gradually that it was about actual, physical pain. There was a whiteness around those lips that made Casey suspect that he had not merely sprained or twisted but actually broken his foot. "At least take a Tylenol, Dad," Casey suggested.

"Can't," his dad grunted in reply. "Flushed them."

Casey offered a half-hearted smile of apology, ignoring the pull of resentment.

"I think I need to go to the hospital and get this taped up," admitted his father.

Yes, go! Casey's mind trumpeted, completely bewildering him. He had become so demented and bizarre to himself that his heart pounded in fear of what he would do or propose next. It skipped with anxiety even as he urged his father, "Go," despite the fact that he had no intention of trying anything and he didn't really want to be alone.

"No. I'll survive until tomorrow."

"But you — "

"Casey, I am not leaving you alone here. If I have to, I'll go as soon as Sasha gets back."

So they became two pitiful living room fixtures, he and his dad. Even after repeated applications of ice his dad's foot caused him so much discomfort that he was unable to nod off as he patently wished to, and for Casey, there were no longer any rational connections between tired, bed, and sleep. He had lost the ability to make meaningful combinations of them. The slight warmth the shower had given him departed quickly, and he sat there on the couch making a pretense of watching the football game his father had put on. For one whole quarter of that game he was fighting with a certainty that to ruin something would make him feel better...anything he could have laid his hands on, anything not nailed down. He envisioned plenty of damage to himself that way too — he prophesied blood and stillness and understood why Yves had been so insistent that he make that promise to her. Petrified by himself, he sat rigidly on the couch, feeling oddly like a clone of his father since both of them were trying not to move lest they aggravate their pain.

It was hours of freezing cold and staring at the part of the room that held the TV screen — until at last he heard Sasha's key in the lock. He hugged his ankles, tucking them up tight against his body, longing for Sasha to find him and dreading it because he feared that the instant he tried to speak he would begin crying again. His father made a move as though to get up, winced in pain, and stayed put.

It seemed there was an eternity of Sasha puttering about in the distance, until they heard him find the broken door and exclaim, "Oh, shit! Casey!"

"In here!" Casey's dad called then.

At long last the familiar face inserted itself in the room. There was an almost-panic in it that faded as Sasha saw that Casey was intact. "Hi..." he began, and taking in more of the details, he came without a word to sit beside Casey, putting an arm around him. "What happened to the bathroom door?" he asked softly.

"I broke it," Casey's dad said.

Casey leaned into Sasha, hiding, closing his burning eyes.

"Broke it how?"

Sidestepping, Casey's dad replied, "Casey has an appointment tomorrow. At ten."

"Where?"

"With that doctor."

"You mean Yves?"

"Yes...she wants us both to come too."

"But...how did this all happen — while I was at work?"

"We've had a difficult time. Casey wanted to call her."

"Kitten?" Sasha tried to tip Casey back but Casey resisted it just by not helping, keeping the weight of his body inert against Sasha's. "You want to fill me in?"

Casey remained as he was, moulded to Sasha's familiar warmth and scent, and didn't even try.

"Okay," Sasha sighed. "I guess that's a no. How about you get ready for bed and I'll join you in a bit?"

His intention was surely to get the information he needed from the other person in the room, and Casey was willing to let that happen if it could spare them all from another outbreak of tears. However, at that point Casey's father broke in with, "I think I need to go to emergency."

"What?" The alarm in Sasha's voice was rising again. "Why? What happened?"

Casey's father shook his head. "It's not that serious...I'm just pretty sure I've broken a few toes."

This time, Casey was forcibly dislodged as Sasha straightened to get a look at the appendage. Casey looked also. He had spent a whole evening with that foot but this was the first he had noticed that part of it seemed to have grown to twice its normal size inside the white, cotton tube sock. "Oh, my," Sasha commented. "But are you...can you manage?"

"Yes. If you could just give me directions..."

"But you can't drive like that, can you?"

Casey's dad pursed his lips for a second then said, "I'll take a cab."

"Or I could take you," Sasha offered, not quite disguising his fatigue at that prospect.

"No," Casey's dad refused. "You have to stay with Casey. He can't be alone."

Apparently, the possibility of Casey going with them to the hospital was out of the question, and Casey didn't have to look up to feel Sasha's anxiety escalating. "What the hell happened?" Sasha demanded.

With that, Casey pulled away and got to his feet. If he couldn't find words to explain to Sasha, at least he could leave the room so they could discuss him undisturbed and Sasha could get his answers. And maybe he could try to call Zeke again in the meantime — but there was no point, Zeke was "not in service," Casey reminded himself as he wandered out of the living room, still struggling to understand the simple words thenumberyouhavecalledisnotinservicethenumberyouhavecalled youhavecallednotinservicenotinserviceservesyourightservesyourightslutslutslut...

"What's that, kitten? What did you say?"

He didn't think he had spoken; perhaps he had made a sound of some description. He paused in his amble towards the bedroom, turning to face them. "I want a Xanax," he said.

"You'd never be able to get up for your appointment," Sasha said at once.

"But...they're gone, remember?" Casey's father added, drawing an agitated look from Sasha.

"I know," Casey muttered. "I just wanted one." His father's failure to understand this distinction pissed him off immeasurably.

They barely waited until he was out of earshot to start whispering. Foregoing brushing his teeth, he went and laid himself in Sasha's bed, waiting for them to finish. The conversation went on for a solid fifteen minutes, after which he heard footsteps, and the door to the outside world opening and closing as his father left the apartment in the middle of the night to have his injuries tended to. Then there was the shower running and the bathroom door creaking unhealthily. Casey heard Sasha commenting to himself about it. Finally Sasha came into the bedroom and put on his pajamas in the dark. Getting into the bed, he immediately pulled Casey into an almost- stifling embrace. He said nothing for a long time, while Casey waited.

"I love you," he said at length, his voice gruff. "But if you kill yourself I will never forgive you. I mean it this time, Casey."

"I didn't want to," Casey struggled to say. His glimpsed his next emotional outburst approaching, and it was unstoppable. He'd only manage to postpone it for a little while.

"I don't get that, I don't get how you think about it but you don't want to, and I'm just telling you I will never...never...forgive you...if you do it."

"Not going to," Casey whispered.

"That's better. That's...really good." Sasha let out a shuddery, almost-crying breath and hugged Casey even tighter. "I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow but I'll be there."

"I'm scared, she's going to..."

"Don't be scared. God, kitten, you've been so brave tonight. Knowing you needed to call Yves and telling her..." Casey was squeezed until he could barely breathe. Sasha attempted laughter, and failed. "You have to know that there's nothing you can't do."

"Sasha..."

"What?"

"My dad...he took your knives and put them somewhere."

"Yeah, he told me. It's okay, Casey."

"I'm sorry."

"But it's okay...I don't care about the knives, I care about you."

"I didn't want this to happen."

"I know...you've been having such a hard time, kitten, what with nasty dreams and everything else just kind of lousy — "

For some reason Casey felt that he had to contradict that statement. "I haven't been dreaming...I mean...I had one the other night but that's it."

"Casey...it was more than one."

Despite the warmth of the covers, and of Sasha's body, Casey started to shiver. "What do you mean?" he asked, but he knew. There were those snatches of dark things happening in the middle of the night, things he had only remembered briefly in the light of day. It hadn't occurred to him that there was anything for someone else to notice, that he had been disturbing his bed partner.

"Since you started sleeping with me, kitten..."

"Oh," Casey whispered.

"It's all right, really."

"I woke you up?"

"A few times."

"Fuck...fuck..." Perhaps it was an overreaction to be nothing less than shattered by this news, to fall once more to fits of tears over something that should have been a minor point of contention. "Fuck."

"Hey," Sasha soothed, rubbing his back. "It's okay...take it easy."

"But you...you...have to...sleep too," Casey hiccoughed, "and you can't go around being tired...you have work and stuff..."

"Come on, kitten...no need to be a drama queen. The only reason I mentioned it was that I was hoping you would tell me what the dreams are about."

The tar-black ooze was running in him again, Casey could feel it all through him, coating, defiling everything. There was no one on the planet who was a greater burden than him and it was no wonder that Zeke had taken off and only a matter of time before Sasha made his escape too. "Don't," he gulped, gripping Sasha's pajama front, bunching it in handfuls.

"Don't what?"

"Leave."

"Casey, you know you'd have to beat me off with a stick."

"But if you weren't h-here — "

"Since it's not going to happen, there's no reason to worry about it."

"I'm gonna make it really — really hard, I can't help it, I just — "

"Are you?" Sasha said. "Oh, dear. I'd better brace myself."

Somehow, his gentle disinterest in Casey's dire prediction helped to get the worst of the misery contained. At least the spasms eased and Casey could almost get out an entire sentence without stammering. "Zeke's gone...I'm fucked and I'm going to fuck up everyone else."

"Casey, there's so much wrong with that I don't know where to start. I know for a fact that Zeke will be back. I talked to him and yeah, he was going to go to that wedding but that's what he promised his father he would do. Personally, I'm glad you decided to come home instead of going with him. I think it was the right decision."

Obviously, Zeke hadn't told Sasha everything and Casey should have realized it earlier when Sasha kept asking if they could have a talk...but he had been assuming that Sasha and Zeke discussed everything to do with him. Zeke had pretty much implied that, and Casey didn't know why Sasha wasn't pushing harder about the reasons for Casey's abrupt change in plans. He was glad for it, though. He didn't have the will to attempt either truth or evasion. Exhaustion was pummelling him and even if he didn't think sleep was on his agenda, he was ready to stop talking. He laid himself out flat, hands folded on his chest. "I'm so tired."

"I know. Me too." Propping himself on an elbow, Sasha caressed Casey's hair lightly for a few seconds. "Are you going to hang in there for me?"

"Guess so."

Sasha settled down on his side, huffing and grunting as he tugged the covers into place. "Everything's going to work out, kitten, trust me.

The only honesty Casey could offer in response to that was no response at all.

"Time for sleep," Sasha sighed, and shortly he had proved it.

A while into listening to him breathe, Casey heard a creaking of the bed on the other side of the wall...his and Zeke's bed, and his heart leapt with the improbable notion that Zeke was there before he was forced to acknowledge to himself that he might have drifted off temporarily and missed his father's return...because of course it was not Zeke. It couldn't possibly be Zeke and he was out of his mind as usual. Zeke's number was notinservice, therefore Zeke didn't want to talk to him... and therefore Zeke didn't want him.

No, his logic was no logic at all. The notinservice wasn't a harbinger of something previously unknown, it was merely the confirmation of what was already a fact, a thing that he had known ever since the horrible discourse between him and Zeke on Wednesday. Nothing had really changed. It was reasonably certain that Zeke would return to Seattle and that he would continue to live in the same apartment with Casey. He would speak civilly to Casey once his anger had cooled, but he would not be with Casey because he was not the kind of person who put up with being hurt repeatedly. He would walk away from their relationship and keep his distance...his current, physical distance was only a literal expression of his leaving in spirit.

There was something even worse to know, and nothing would alter it. Zeke would come back and they would not be together anymore, but still Zeke would insist on knowing every last thing about Casey. Zeke was determined, stubborn and controlling, and he was nowhere near finished with helping Casey — that was what he had said, wasn't it? Word for word. He wouldn't be finished until he had cut Casey open and bled every last bit of truth out of him. While Sasha was kinder about it, he was essentially on the same quest. They both believed that if he could just offer up the truth to Dr. Yves, everything would be okay.

So it would be in his best interest to give them all something. Only something sufficiently startling would satisfy them — he just didn't know what that could be. It couldn't be what they wanted, what they expected and conspired for. He really didn't have anything to accuse Roy with, or Janice for that matter. So maybe he kicked and lashed out in fear once in a while — that was just the obstinate twitching of a mind full of contradictions. He had given himself over to a universe of extremes and he couldn't go back, he just hadn't been good enough for more than a bit of hard play followed by the inevitable rejection. What then, was he supposed to confess? Certainly nothing that could make his friend, his doctor, or his ex-boyfriend happy. He was probably going to end up in a padded room while the doctors puzzled over Alien- Boy's pathology, Zeke would move on, even Sasha would move on, and Casey would be alone forever like he'd always known he would end up.

He probably shouldn't have promised Dr. Yves what he'd promised. Still, he wasn't above breaking such a promise under the circumstances, even if it meant that he'd never be able to redeem himself...but for now, he was stuck. He had an appointment to attend, and maybe his clever doctor could pull a miracle out of her file folder. She was pretty smart, after all, and he didn't have anything to lose in hoping that she would surprise him.

Gradually, there was a tiny glimmer of light beyond the curtains of Sasha's room. Casey watched it, urged it on, cooed to it in his mind until finally it was really morning and he could justify making a move to crawl out of the bed. At that point Sasha, who had apparently been deep in sleep, clapped a stern hand on his forearm. "Where you going?" he slurred, eyes not opening.

Casey crammed his reaction down. Exhausted or not, he owed it to everyone to be the best boy he could be today. "Bathroom."

"Purpose?"

"To piss and brush my teeth."

"Kay."

He stumbled a little getting from Sasha's room into the hallway, his bare feet tangling slightly in the carpet. He didn't think he'd made a sound but an instant later he heard the leviathan stir in his and Zeke's room. "Casey?!" his father called, with a tinge of urgency.

"Just going to cut my wrists," he breathed.

"What?"

He raised his voice. "Just getting up." He pushed on the broken bathroom door a little harder than necessary, his hand making a bit of a thud against the laminated wood.

After doing what he had said he was going to do, he headed to the living room, seeking the mind-numbing company of the television. As he passed by the kitchen, he noted that Sasha had made it there ahead of him and was doing something with the bread. "Cinnamon toast?" Sasha offered.

Casey wasn't hungry, but he didn't dare object. "Yes, please," he said politely.

Shortly, the TV remote slipped cool and safe into his hand, and the screen brightened on some animated children's cartoon. He recalled that in the rest of the world it was Saturday and New Year's Eve was tomorrow night. In some part of the world, people were still in holiday mode. He wondered what they did for holidays in psychiatric hospitals. He imagined that he could look forward to an annual viewing of It's a Wonderful Life and on Christmas Day, maybe a plastic tray with a few slices of turkey, canned cranberry sauce and instant mashed potatoes. It didn't sound all that bad...provided the other inmates left him alone. And for New Years they would drink lemon-lime soda and all the patients would wear silly paper hats, monitored by big guys who wore scrubs and measured the emotions in the room for signs of disturbance. Together, they would all watch the big ball drop in Time Square.

"One order cinnamon toast, up," Sasha said, appearing in front of Casey. Casey took in Sasha's friendly grin and the way he served up the toast artistically on a plate with Casey's pills, just as he had on previous occasions, and wondered if the only difference between home and a hospital was a difference of style.

He accepted the plate. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Sasha dropped into his armchair, stretching and yawning.

"What about you?"

"Oh, I'm not hungry right now."

Casey covered his annoyance by faking good humour. "I never get to say that."

Sasha considered him for a second, then said, "Okay, fair enough." He levered himself into a standing position again. "I'll have some too."

As his friend returned to the kitchen, Casey revised his opinion. Somehow even when everything sucked ass in a certain place, it could still be better than another. Home was absolutely preferable, and if Dr. Yves locked him up then all promises were rescinded. At some point today, he would decide if it was worth warning her.

 

After the bone-shuddering cold of Ohio's December, Seattle's almost- January was balmy. The mist on his face helped Casey to shake off some of his grogginess, and the rapid infusion of pure adrenaline had him wide awake by the time they arrived in front of Dr. Yves' building, at one minute to ten.

They found the entranceway dark and the front door locked.

"Maybe she's not here," Casey's father said, his expression a hybrid of worry and hope — no doubt the hope of reprieve from having to deal with a shrink in person now. His appearance this morning was of a man older than Casey knew him to be. And he was limping noticeably; apparently, the emergency department had taped up two toes last night, given him a pain pill, and told him to try to stay off his foot for a while. They had recommended ordinary Tylenol for the duration but he had not bothered to let them know that he couldn't keep any of that stuff in the same apartment with his possibly-suicidal son.

"No, she has to be," Sasha said. He located the buzzer and used it.

Not thirty seconds later, Dr. Yves came to let them in. "Good morning," she greeted them, and not waiting to hear if anyone responded in kind, led them into the otherwise deserted reception area. She was dressed for today's occasion in a pair of lavender jogging pants and matching jacket of the same material. There was a light, flowery scarf draped around her neck, and to Casey she had never looked as much like someone's grandmother as she did then.

"So, Casey," she said, noting her guests with a nod. "Is this your father?"

"Yeah..." Casey mumbled. It felt awkward unto impossible for some reason but he tried an introduction. "Um...Frank Connor...D-Doctor Yves?"

Yves reached over to shake his father's hand. "Pleased to meet you, Frank."

"Yeah," his father returned, then cleared his throat nervously. "You too."

"And it's good to see you again, Sasha." Without delay, Dr. Yves turned her attention to Casey. He had been trying to observe her, to ascertain her feelings about this event. He couldn't make out anything — not a mood or an attitude or anything the least bit atypical in how she behaved towards him. "Well, then, Casey," she said. "How would you like to start?"

"H-how?"

"Shall we have Sasha and your father — "

"No," Casey blurted. He didn't dare glance Sasha's way, knowing that Sasha would be disappointed.

"You want to talk to me alone first?" Dr. Yves said.

"Yeah."

"All right, then. Sasha...Frank...do you think you could wait out here? Or if you want to you could leave and come back in a little bit?"

"How long do you think it'll be?" asked Casey's father, fidgeting on the spot. No doubt he was hoping she'd say not to bother coming back at all and that they should leave everything to her.

"Say an hour?"

Sasha and Casey's father exchanged looks and shrugs. "Let's go get a coffee," was Sasha's rather weary suggestion.

"All right," his father agreed.

"Thank you," Yves said. "See you in an hour, then. I'll leave the door unlocked, so when you come back if you could just wait out here...? I'll come and get you."

"Sure," Sasha replied. He smiled briefly at Casey, having apparently made the decision not to hold anything against him — but to watch him and Casey's father limping-walking out together was beyond strange. Casey tried to imagine what they would talk about and couldn't think of a single thing they had in common, save for him. It was frightening to consider their impending conversation, but not nearly as frightening as having the two of them in therapy with him.

Yves made a sweeping motion, directing Casey towards her office. "Shall we go in?"

He acquiesced, scuttling down the hall to find his place. Falling back upon ritual, he removed his boots and formed himself into a ball in the chair. Everything felt strange and removed, the light a bit too bright for his eyes. Oddly, he realized, he had been expecting her office to feel like a refuge. It didn't seem at all like it, now that he was here.

"You look like you didn't sleep much," Dr. Yves remarked, now in her usual seat with her legs crossed. Her file folder and notebook were nearby, resting on her desk. Her face was very nearly expressionless, but she had to hate him. She couldn't be here on a Saturday because he was some special patient that she would go to special lengths to save. It was supposed to be her vacation, or at the very least it was supposed to be the weekend, and her grandchildren were staying at her house.

"I'm sorry," he blurted. He knew he was the wrench in absolutely everything right now. "I'm s — "

"Sorry for what?"

His skin crawled, creeping under his clothes and he fretted and rubbed his arms, trying to get some warmth into them. "I'm ruining your holiday."

"Like I told you last night, Casey...it's all right. I've just been spending time at home and there were no great plans that you've interrupted this morning. Besides, this is my job. Sometimes there are emergencies. You don't need to keep apologizing."

"You shouldn't have given me your phone number," he insisted.

Dr. Yves appeared somewhat confused. "Why would you say that, Casey?"

His shoulders were scrunched up around his ears. He wanted to go a step further and hide his eyes too, as infantile as it would seem. "You don't usually do that."

"Do what?"

"Let your patients call you at home."

"I do when I'm concerned that a patient is in crisis."

"But you told me you like to keep your life separate and not get too involved."

"Why is this an issue, Casey?"

Her tone was more detached than ever, and his failure to provoke the dislike that he knew she must feel made something ugly burn in him. It wasn't merely anger, but anger sure as fuck had a lot to do with it. "You don't actually give a damn about me, right? So you must be mad for having to come in here on a weekend."

"We've been through this, Casey, I thought we settled it already. I do care about you. I don't like to see you hurting — that's why I'm a doctor."

"So it's not really about me, it's just love for all mankind, right?"

"That wasn't a problem for you before. In fact, you said it was a comfort. What is it that's really bothering you?"

Getting the words out was a challenge that he barely managed. "You — you don't like me."

"What makes you think that?"

"I just know."

"Well, suppose that was true?" she returned. "What would that mean to you?"

At this apparent confirmation of his fears, his stomach quivered. He wanted to cry, and answering out loud seemed out of the question when he would just break down and give her more reason for her dislike.

"Why is it important that I like you, Casey?"

Shrinking further into the chair, he whispered, "I like you." His anger had gone under just as quickly as it had surfaced. "I do like you."

"Thank you," Yves replied, not appearing at all moved by the confession. "I appreciate that, Casey, but you don't have to like me, you know."

"But I tell you so much... I told you about them, and last night..."

"What is it that you're worrying about here, Casey?"

Unclenching a little, Casey tried to look less like the agitated freak that he was. "I think it's...I don't know, I just..." His voice fell to a whisper. "I hope you like me." He squirmed. "If you don't like me you'll want to... to get rid of me."

"I think what you're saying, Casey, is that I'm more likely to have you hospitalized if I don't like you?"

With that, he gave up trying to be still. He would do whatever he was doing — shaking, rocking, vibrating, whatever he needed to soothe himself. "Maybe... yeah."

Dr. Yves voice didn't change. "You don't think that I can separate my personal feelings from my professional judgment?"

"You're only human," he muttered in return.

Yves raised her eyebrows and reached for her notebook. She flipped to a fresh page but didn't write anything just yet. "Interesting point," she noted. "Let me ask you this before we get down to assessing you...what's your assessment of me? Have you decided that I am human and not something else? Do you think you can work with me?"

"I have been working with you."

"Well, Casey, it's true you've been coming here regularly since September, but I think you'll agree that it's been a struggle at times."

That had to be her way of telling him he'd been a bad patient. He shrugged, not wanting her to see how that bothered him. And it bothered him further that he wanted to be her best patient...if he was honest, he would have to admit that he wanted to be her favourite.

She added, "It's been apparent for some time that there are a lot of things that you don't want to tell me."

"But...I told you things," he said. He'd given her his most important secret and it hadn't been easy. Zeke was furious about it still. He'd probably never stop being furious about it.

"Things?"

"You know...aliens." He watched for a reaction to those words. As ever, there was nothing visible on the surface and he wondered why he even kept looking.

"Yes, you did," Yves acknowledged, "and that relates to what I was asking you about trust. I mean, if you're worrying about me potentially being your enemy then I can hardly blame you for having a difficult time telling me things."

Casey felt suspicious of the direction she was going, but uncertain of what it was. He said, "I don't know what to say to that."

"Essentially, I want to know if you trust me, Casey."

"I do," he said, almost without hesitation. There was no doubt of the truth of it, only of the wisdom of saying it. Because he was, of course, an idiot who had trusted certain people long past the time that he should have stopped, and he would have to say if pressed that trust wasn't an accurate term for what he did. He didn't trust; he accepted, and those were probably not the same things. "Even though you might be an alien."

He dared a look in her direction and thought she was probably amused.

"So in other words," she said, "You trust me even though I might hurt you."

"Yeah...I know it's stupid. I'm stupid — "

"Not at all. That's life, Casey, and trusting even though you might get hurt takes courage, and a certain kind of wisdom."

"I'm not wise," he was quick to say.

"There may be people who would disagree."

"Not Zeke...he hates me now, I've done some things..."

Dr. Yves held up a quelling hand. "Casey... I know you want to talk about Zeke, and we will, but it's very important for today that we focus on your state of mind. My primary concern at this moment is your physical safety...and the safety of others." She waited to see if he had a comment, and when he had none, she continued, "I'd like to know how you're feeling right now."

He made what was to him an unprecedented effort to really consider the answer to that question, to analyze his mood, and he got slammed up against something rock hard and painful, so fast that he was nearly blinded. The thought- fragments tumbled and turned, heedless of what he should or might convey to her to help himself...Zeke hates me left me hates me it hurts, it all hurts, such filth... "I feel awful," he croaked.

"Can you elaborate on that?"

Resting his forehead against his knees, he tried to breathe through the pain so he could take a step back, enough to make out some of its features. "I... it's like a pain in my body and I can't stand it. I want it to go away...but..." He pressed his forehead against his knees and buried a soft scream there. "...I don't know the fuck how."

"Are you thinking that killing yourself is the only answer?"

"I did last night, for a while. Most of the time it's more like..." Lifting his head, he made himself look, he saw her watching him and tucked both hands between his knees and his body. "It's like — like I'm nothing. I'm filth and everyone can see it...I can't be like this...and I think what if this is just the start, what if it gets worse and worse? It's like...I think I won't make it, not because I can't bear this right now but because I don't know where it's going to stop..." Distantly, he observed that he was full-out sobbing. Yves put down her notepad and calmly held out the box of tissues that always sat on her desk. "I can't — seem to — stop crying," he moaned, snatching one.

"Crying is allowed."

"But — I've done it — so much. Everyone must be sick of me. Sasha...and Zeke's so disgusted by me, by what I did, he's gone..."

Yves put the tissues back on her desk but this time within his reach. "We'll get back to Zeke, I promise, Casey. Right now I want you to tell me what you think is going to happen if I let you go home."

He wiped his streaming eyes. "I d-don't — know."

"Have you thought a lot about how you might kill yourself? How you would do it?"

"There's — no way, really — " he struggled, his voice thick with phlegm.

"Suppose there was. Suppose you were alone and you had access to lots of pills, or a gun."

The overworked tissue was a damp, pathetic ball in his hands; he used it to blow his nose anyway. "I can't let everyone..." He sniffed and dabbed his face. "...can't let everyone down. That's all I can...can do...just not put them through any more crap."

"Casey... don't you think that you are valued by your friends, that you are more to them than just an inconvenience?"

"I know they care and they'd be really hurt if I...if I was gone...but I forget. All I can feel is that ache and wanting it to go away." He reached over and grabbed another tissue. "And then I s-start thinking or something happens and I just...I have...it's like an attack of the crazies."

"The crazies?"

"That's what it feels like. My head just fills up with shit and it's all bad and I can't stop it. It happens all the time. Like...like last night. I tried to call Zeke and his cell number didn't work."

"How do you mean, it didn't work?"

"It said it was out of service."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing. I just sat around...I sat all night until S-Sasha came home...I kept thinking I just wanted it to stop. That's what I thought...make it stop."

"How would you make it stop, Casey?"

He half-shrugged.

"Did you think about ways to make it stop?"

"Yes...well, no..."

"No?" she echoed.

"I promised you I wouldn't hurt myself."

Yves set her pen to her page and wrote, even as she continued her questions. "So this was after you called me?"

"Yes." He sensed the build-up of fresh saline behind his already stinging eyes. "I shouldn't have tried calling him. I knew Zeke didn't want to talk to me but I couldn't help it. I tried."

This time, Yves paused to scan her notes for a full minute before resuming, "A minute ago you mentioned a feeling, a kind of a wave where you feel 'filthy'..."

"It's more than that, it's...like I'm just covered in dirt. It's so real...it's like a physical thing."

"Is this something new, this feeling?"

"It's hard to remember...but I don't think so."

"Do you think you might be able to remember other times when you felt it?"

"I don't know," he whispered. "I don't..."

"It can be difficult to remember feelings, Casey, I know. I just want you to do your best."

Casey shivered, hunching into the chair. He stared at his companion in therapy, the owl sculpture on Yves' floor, as if he might be of some assistance. Nothing came to him as he attempted to summon a specific time or place, a moment when he had started to know that he was filth. He only knew that it was true right now, that he was horrible.

Yves suggested, "Do you recall if you felt it before the hospital in Herrington, at all?"

As far back as last April when the term was just wrapping up, Casey's memories were predominated by instances of lying in bed...and still more lying-in-bed. He didn't know how he'd gotten through exams for there was just absolute stillness...stillness in body and mind that was somehow incredibly painful. Before that it wasn't complete stillness but the stillness was around a lot, and sometimes he wasn't in bed, he was on a couch or on a floor or in the shower with Roy. All the times with Roy loomed large in his memory, as though the great majority of his time last year hadn't been spent alone, as though after a point there had been anything but a great void of Roy. "When do you mean?"

"After Roy broke up with you, let's say."

"I remember...I went home and I just stayed in bed a lot...I remember thinking once in a while that I should kill myself... but it was a different feeling from last night."

"How so?"

"Mostly I just didn't feel anything. It was like I didn't even care enough to do something about how miserable I was."

"And this was right after Roy left you?"

"It was like that most of the summer. I just...slept, mostly."

Dr. Yves was flipping through her notes. " We've talked a little before about the way things went last summer," she observed. "It seems that you were very depressed, maybe too depressed to really consider suicide."

That caught his attention. "Too depressed for suicide?"

"When a person is profoundly depressed, Casey, they sometimes don't have the capacity to consider any action. They may be incapable of having ideas or planning anything. Occasionally, it's when they wake up a little that they suddenly start having suicidal thoughts. Or they may have had thoughts before but lacked the ability to carry them out. That's why even when a person appears to be improving, we need to be careful."

"You mean...when they get better that's when it really starts to hurt."

"Exactly."

"Wonderful," he muttered.

She smiled in acknowledgment before going on. "Of course there are no hard and fast rules. Everyone is a little different but I can tell you this...it may be a good sign when a patient starts to feel really lousy. In your case, though, there was a factor that kind of threw a big wrinkle into the process."

"What's that?"

"You tell me, Casey. You were lying in bed, feeling deeply depressed over Roy's leaving you..."

"And empty."

"And it hurt, yes?"

"Yeah."

"So what happened to change that?"

"Zeke," he answered immediately. "Zeke came...everything changed."

Yves nodded. "How did it change, exactly?"

"I...just...he was there and I could be with him. I still kind of felt the same but there was something...something..."

"Something to strive for?"

"Pretty much," he admitted.

"But you were still depressed, weren't you? And when the relationship with Zeke seemed to fall apart, that was when you fell apart."

He nodded.

"And this black feeling you just described...have you ever felt like that when you were with Zeke?"

"I don't remember," he said, and knew that he was lying.

Yves pressed, "Isn't it possible that this feeling has been around but you've been pushing it away?"

He didn't answer.

"Let me ask you this, Casey. When you dissociate...what do you feel just before it happens?"

As in previous sessions, he had the sense that she was constructing a trap around him that he couldn't quite see, only sense, and he wanted to disagree or resist everything she said. But he forced himself to speak because not playing along would only signal to her that she should keep on pushing. "I don't remember."

"Are you sure you don't remember? Or do you just try not to?"

He stared at his friend the inanimate owl some more. He really was beginning to be quite fond of the bird, and to feel bad for it being trapped here in this office instead of out in the wilds, acting wise and hunting down hot, juicy mice. "I guess I feel bad and that's why I dissociate."

"Bad in the same way that you feel bad now?"

"No," he snapped. "Before I was always afraid that Zeke was leaving and I was really fucking scared that he'd figure out that I'm shit and now he knows I'm shit...and he really is gone."

"Are those two states of mind really so different?"

He opened his mouth, holding back a scream of frustration.

"Go on," she urged, waiting for him.

Somehow, he made the scream into an explanation. "Before...sometimes it would be like feeling nothing and it was terrible but now it's like...terrible in a whole other way. It just hurts, like something is just hitting me and hitting me. Before I could make the bad feeling go away and now I can't."

"Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know. I think the Klonopin has something to do with it. I haven't dissociated in a while and it's like I feel more and more...I just don't remember feeling so...so much."

"Is it fair to say that this overwhelming bad feeling didn't just start when Zeke left for Los Angeles?"

Over Christmas...no, before that. After the birthday party and especially when Zeke and he weren't together and weren't fucking...which only stood to reason since he was such a slut. Oh, and since Zeke's party he'd written pages and pages detailing exactly how and what kind of slagslutwhore he was.

"Yes," he said, strongly suspecting that he had just fallen into a great, stinking mire. He chafed his arms, imagining that to tear the skin off would bring some relief from this feeling. It had to.

"When did you start to feel it, then?"

"When we stopped fucking."

"Casey," Yves said gently. "Why do you feel that you need Zeke so much?"

The tears that had almost dried up started to trickle anew. "I'm nothing without him."

"Objectively that just isn't true. You still exist. You breathe, you think, you feel...so what is it about being without Zeke that scares you? Can you articulate it?"

"I told you, I'm nothing. I don't exist — I literally feel like I'm not here, I don't know what to feel, what to do...I don't know!"

"I'm sorry if I'm upsetting you, Casey, but what you just described is important. So essentially, when you're alone you don't know who you are. Or if you do know, you don't like it, right? You don't like you."

"Yes, and...and it's like..."

"It's like...?"

Casey held his shins and whispered, "I'll do anything to make it stop."

"Such as?"

"Such as..." Overwhelmed with disgust at himself, he hid his face against his knees again; he couldn't look at her and say this. "Like what I did with Thomas."

"What did you do with Thomas?"

"Told you before."

"Not in detail."

"I wanted Thomas to fuck me. Zeke wouldn't and I needed it."

"Why did you need it?"

"Because I'm a slut, okay?"

"I don't consider that an acceptable answer, Casey."

Oh, but if he gave her another answer then he would be crossing a line that he'd never crossed before. Zeke had begged for him to talk about this shit and he reacted and fought and refused...and now here he was on the brink of doing just that. It wasn't even that he had no choice, but that he needed to confess his shameful behaviour with Thomas and he just knew where it would lead. He even wanted it, maybe in the same way that he wanted to just give up and let himself be tucked away from his friends, from the world. Over and done with, once and for all, forever and ever just be done with it amen.

"It's the truth," he replied. "You don't know...how I am, Dr. Yves. You don't see the way I act..."

"How do you act?"

"I do whatever it takes. I beg, I push, I argue...I twist everything...I get so I want it and that's all I know... There's nothing I won't do...

"And why is that, do you think?"

He managed to get his face away from his knees and speak the truth. "It's not that I need Zeke," he said clearly. "It's that I need someone. Anyone. That's why I'm shit. That's why I cheated twice on Zeke and — and that's why he left." He felt his lip tremble, and just barely staved off another fit of tears.

"Tell me what happened with Zeke," Dr. Yves said quietly, giving him leave at last. "The last I heard you were determined to go to L.A. with him."

"We were going together like we said. I wanted to — to — no, I told him I wanted to be there for him but that's crap. I just wanted him to fuck me."

"Because your month of abstinence was going to be up," she supplied.

"Next Wednesday, technically. See, I kept track...but I didn't even want to wait that long. It's all in my journal, I wrote it down... I was going crazy without it, and he was mad at me for being so fucked up...I mean, what good am I to him except for fucking?"

"So you equate your value to your ability to please Zeke sexually."

"It is my value. The rest of the time I'm just this big batch of problems. Roy could tell you...the only time he wanted to be around me was when we fucked. The rest of the time...he'd be somewhere else. Not with me."

There was a throb of rage, followed by a pulse, and then a full tsunami — and all unanticipated because he couldn't recall the last time he'd really felt anything about Roy. Zeke had been the object of all his emotions, for months now. He gave his attention to his breathing, trying to roll with that unexpected, hard anger, waiting for it to pass.

Moments later, he noticed that Dr. Yves was sitting forward in her chair as though she were enthralled by this turn in the conversation. "Finish telling me what happened with Zeke," she said. Her voice was as poised as ever.

The Roy-feelings popped like an overextended bubble, giving way once more to the all-consuming Zeke-feelings. "I couldn't keep it together. Sasha had to go home and he thought I should skip the trip and go home too. I refused to and Zeke didn't want me to, he wanted me to come with him — he wanted me too, I know he did, he even told me! But then after Sasha left I just couldn't...If I were smarter I would have waited until we were in L.A. but I couldn't...hide anymore. I started to get on Zeke's case but he wouldn't do anything. All of a sudden he was all virtuous and he didn't care how much I needed it...and then he told me...he told me we're not going to have sex anymore. Indefinitely. He said it was for my own good."

"That makes you angry."

"Yeah, it fucking makes me angry! He always has to be in complete control of everything. He decides when and how much and when he feels he's not in control anymore he suddenly announces that we can't do it because it would hurt me."

"Did you express this to him?"

"Kinda."

"Kinda?"

Remembering back, Casey shivered. "It doesn't matter what I told him anyway. He tried to say that I...I don't know what I want. Like I don't want him even, that I'm scared of him."

"Why would he think that?"

"Because he has this idea that I'm this helpless person...well, I guess I can't blame him but he called me a..." So simple and yet impossible to say that word, to externalize a mere sound. Victim...it doesn't make you a slut it makes you a victim, it makes you a... "So I told him about Thomas."

Dr. Yves sat back, once more crossing her legs. Her notebook sat open on her lap, neglected. "What happened then?"

"He got really angry...so angry. He said he wanted to go to L.A. alone."

"Did he say anything else?"

"That he was coming back...but he would barely talk to me that night and the next day until we got to the airport...and now he's changed his number."

"You don't know the reason for that, Casey."

"Why else would he?"

"I don't know, but my point is that you're torturing yourself over what you imagine Zeke is thinking and feeling and you know that's not helping yourself. Zeke hasn't said anything except that he's going to his father's wedding and he'll be home after that. And that he feels you shouldn't have sex..."

"Indefinitely."

"Indefinitely. Why do you think he said that, Casey?"

"So he could go find some woman who doesn't cause him any trouble?"

"You don't actually believe that."

Casey shrugged. "You know me, Dr. Yves. I'm crazy that way."

She raised her eyebrows and shook her head. "We'll just let that pass for now. So, then — apart from your belief that Zeke wants to end it with you, why would he put an indefinite hold on sex?"

"I told you...he thinks that I don't know what I want."

"And why would he think that?"

"Because...because he's figured out that any cock will do..."

Those words seemed to fall into a terrible, quivering abyss as Casey realized how close he was to saying something else, and saying it loud: He's figured out I don't love him. And he had just invited her right into the topic he'd been fighting for months to keep her away from. In past sessions he'd resorted to everything and anything to keep this door barred, and now he'd just thrown it wide open.

Yves cleared her throat and observed, "Let's delve into that a bit."

"I'd rather not," he said, honestly, not blaming her for leaping upon the opportunity.

That earned him a smile. "Oh, I know. But you're doing such good work today, Casey...don't stop now. You said you feel like you're nothing when you can't have sex, that you need sex to feel good. Would you say that's an accurate paraphrase of what you told me?"

He made a pretense of trying to scramble for an escape, but he was entirely blank. "Yeah," he conceded, shrugging.

"Does that mean that you would have sex even when you didn't want it?"

"No...it means that I always want it."

"Is it that you want the comfort and the feeling of intimacy that it provides, maybe?"

"No, I want it," he shot back. "Even if..."

Shutupshutupshutup! his inner slut shrieked. Don't say it, don't say no, don't say...

"Even if what, Casey?"

...even if it hurts even if it leaves you sore and aching and empty and you go blank in terror of being alone after, like you did the last time with Zeke and just about every time before that and you're lying there feeling like you've been ripped apart and there's nothing of you, nothing...

"Nothing," he said.

She tilted her head, her sharp eyes taking in every detail of him while he shrank in his chair. "All right," she allowed. "So then...what is it about it that you look forward to all the time?"

Okay, it was time to let the slut do all the talking. "Feeling good," he smirked, and felt himself on more secure ground.

"How does it feel good?"

"You're kidding me, right?" he said, throwing on his sleaziest grin.

The doctor was unimpressed. "I'd like you to tell me exactly what you feel, what about it makes you want it so much that 'any cock will do'."

"I can't," he replied coyly. "It's...it's too embarrassing."

"I don't think you're embarrassed, Casey. I think you just don't want to look too closely at that feeling."

Well, his usual strategies were not being as effective as they should have been, but he had nothing to fall back upon. He purred, "Think what you like." And he truly didn't care what she thought. He didn't care what anyone thought, as long as he could have a hope of feeling good again.

"Casey...do you realize that every time we get onto the topic of you and sex, you follow a very predictable pattern?"

"What's that?" he drawled.

"First you put on a sexually promiscuous persona and try to make me uncomfortable. When that doesn't work, you get hostile in the hopes of scaring me off. I would have hoped that by now you'd see that I don't get embarrassed or scared."

Sometimes, he really did hate her — always making like she knew so much, like she understood him when she didn't know shit about what he felt. No one did, in fact...not Sasha, not Zeke...oh, definitely not Zeke. "I'm tired of people trying to tell me there's something wrong with it."

"Did you want to have sex with Thomas, Casey?"

"Yes."

"You actually wanted him? Or was it just a particular feeling that you wanted?"

"All right," Casey admitted. "I didn't want him. I just wanted to be fucked and that's why I'm a slut and I'm okay with that, I'm just sick of explaining it to people. How many times do I have to say it?"

"You've told me that you feel like a slut, yes. In previous sessions you've also used the words filthy, whore, dirty, disgusting, shit..."

She seemed to be looking for some comment from him. He had none, since she kept missing the obvious...that he was what he said he was.

"You don't seem to have a high opinion of yourself," she concluded.

He shrugged. "What else would you call someone who acts like I do?"

"My point, Casey, is that you seem to have judged yourself. You're the one who thinks that something's wrong about your sexual needs, but you don't want to admit it. So you push sex on yourself...maybe more than you really want and that's what Zeke observed and why he wants it to stop."

Closing his eyes, he could almost feel Zeke inside him that last time. The memory was the only real thing he'd had over the past month, the only real gift... "I do really want it," he insisted.

"Every minute of every day? No such human being exists, Casey." He tried for a mocking laugh but she just gave him an unconcerned look. "Not even the male of the species," she confirmed. "Yes, we are sexual creatures, all of us. We may think about sex a lot and we usually go for it any time it's available...but there are extremes that are unhealthy."

There seemed no purpose to responding to that.

"I think that we need to continue talking about this. Would you agree that that's a good idea?"

"I'm done," he muttered.

"No, we won't discuss this anymore today. We're not done with this topic, but I think it might be good to have Zeke here when we get back to it. And today we have other fish to fry. We've been talking for a while and unfortunately it will have end soon. So I need to assess what's going to happen if I let you go home with your father and Sasha."

So here it was. The doom of Casey Connor happened as he sat in a psychiatrist's armchair with his hands clutched in his lap, doing his utmost to impersonate a good boy, a sane boy. He should have known that he couldn't hide from her. Fuck, he had known, and still he'd made that call last night. He was truly his own worst enemy.

"Let me tell you what I'm thinking about, Casey. I would assess a moderate to high risk for you at this time — "

His body twitched, preparing itself. He was not going to go willingly.

"I know you've said that you made a decision that you didn't want to kill yourself and that is definitely a positive factor. However, there are reasons for caution. We can't take lightly that you have been thinking about hurting yourself, and particularly now when you feel that Zeke has left you. Many people with the Borderline diagnosis attempt suicide repeatedly throughout their life and it is often precipitated by abandonment or perceived abandonment. It may range from real, serious attempts to suicidal gestures... but the bottom line is I have to consider what I know of you, Casey. You made the point to me yesterday that a hospital would be more harmful than helpful for you, and at this time I agree. That could change at some point, but believe it or not, there are times that a doctor may choose to not refer to the hospitals and clinics, even with a patient who is quite suicidal. There are other options...such as having you sign a No-Harm Contract, and requiring you to see me five times a week for a while."

"Five," Casey echoed in dismay.

"Yes. Would you agree to that if I asked?"

"Yeah," he sighed.

Dr. Yves put her notes aside. She sat forward, right on the end of her chair, and clasped her hands. It was an earnest picture, and it caused every anxious atom in him to begin to agitate and froth. "That's good to know — but I'm afraid we're not there just yet."

"But you said — you said I shouldn't be — "

"We need to discuss other aspects of your behaviour that concern me Casey. These are concerns also raised by Dr. Chakri.

"Dr. Chakri?" he whispered.

"You had given her permission to share your medical information with me and I wanted to hear her assessment of your physical health at your most recent check- up, especially in relation to your medication, so I called her up. I understand that at one of your last appointments with her before you went home for Christmas she was extremely concerned about your physical condition. She also observed that you were frequently belligerent and combative. Dr. Chakri believes, based upon your physical exams and your general behaviour, that there is a very high likelihood that you are being assaulted...or you have been."

"Of course she does," he hissed, hands clenching.

"Don't get upset, Casey, I'm telling you this so we can discuss it."

He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of that. "How can I not get upset when — I knew this was going to happen. I knew it even though I told her and told her — "

"So you deny it."

"Yes, but it doesn't matter, does it? You're going to look at me now and say I'm acting out so it must be true, Zeke's hurting me and I just don't want to admit it or I don't know the difference."

"If it's not true, why are you becoming so agitated?"

"Because no one ever fucking believes me when I tell them Zeke wouldn't hurt me — !"

"Casey. Calm down."

"I am fucking calm!"

"Then perhaps you could show me, not just tell me," Yves said. "Now before you get more worked up, I will tell you that I don't necessarily agree with Dr. Chakri. I don't find it likely that abuse is occurring in the sense that she has suggested. On the other hand, the degree of physical debilitation she mentioned is worrying. Also, I cannot ignore the clear signs that something traumatic has occurred. If it was a sexual trauma, then that places you once again at high risk for a suicide attempt, and given your aggressive behaviour, I have to be concerned about the potential for violence towards others."

"I'm not like that," Casey declared.

"Not like what?"

"I'm not...I don't hurt people."

Liar, his head accused.

Meanwhile, Yves had continued her blather. "To tell the truth my concern on that score is more based on gut feel than anything empirical. From my own observations, all I could say is that you verbally lash out at times. You have a lot of rage that you don't allow yourself to express usually. When it gets out of hand, as it inevitably does, a lot of it is directed at yourself but more and more frequently of late it's being externalized. So far no one has been hurt that I know of but I have to ask what's going to happen when that rage gets out of control."

"I wouldn't..." Casey mumbled, and couldn't complete the statement of untruth. His shoulders hunched and he said, "If you're going to lock me up, just get it over with."

"I didn't say that. We're dealing with a lot of maybes here, Casey. Yes, you can be argumentative and maybe when your anger is getting the better of you, you might pick a fight with a person...but that doesn't necessarily make you dangerous in the sense that would warrant involuntary committal. The problem I have is the big question mark about violent events in your past. You absolutely refuse to tell me certain things, or to admit that they exist."

"What things?"

"Well, if I knew what they were, it wouldn't be a problem."

"Then maybe there's nothing to know."

"Casey...it would be so much easier for us to work together if you were more honest."

"Oh, so I'm a liar."

"I don't mean to imply that. It's more that there are things in people's lives that are hard to talk about. Sometimes so hard that they make up a story about it and come to believe it themselves. That's not lying...it's a way of surviving."

"Story," he echoed in horror. "You mean...alien story?"

"I know that in your way you were trying to tell me the truth..."

Even having anticipated and dreaded her reaction, it was a blow to be confronted with the straightforward rejection of his offering of honesty. For a time, he could do nothing but be immobilized by shock, while she continued to speak, drilling deeply into him with every word.

"Remember how I said I needed to think about what that meant, Casey? Well, I've thought about it, and I've done a little bit of research. I know that there were three women who went missing and have never been found. I know that no evidence of aliens was recovered and that apart from your friends — including Zeke — no one backed you up."

His mind and body suddenly announced their resistance, transforming a state of horrified paralysis into active rage. "Just say you don't believe me," he snarled. "I don't want to hear the why."

"It wouldn't matter what I believe, Casey, except that the truth of what happened back then connects very obviously to your safety and well-being now. There is violence in your past. It's still haunting you, you need to deal with it...and you refuse to deal with it. That's the heart of the problem for me."

"I've told you all I'm going to tell you."

"Well, that's problematic," she replied, watching him as she might have watched a dangerous animal.

"And I thought I could trust you."

"You can — "

"Not if you think I'm some fucking serial killer who eats women."

"I find that unlikely, actually."

He couldn't stay in his chair; he was up, he was standing in place, vibrating and noting with some satisfaction the slight flinch in her expression. "Why would it be unlikely? You say three women died and I have all this rage and violence in me. Plus I've already admitted to killing a whole alien race."

"You're not helping yourself now, Casey."

"What's the point of me trying to help myself? That's how I got here in the first place!"

"I suggest that you calm down."

"You think I might attack you?"

"Honestly? It's a possibility. You're a very angry person, Casey, and I'm definitely seeing that anger first hand. Now I'd appreciate it if you sat down."

Her tone was remarkably potent, draining everything but the guilt of having again become the mad person he'd been when he hit Winona. His knees went weak; he crumpled into his chair. "I don't want to hurt anyone," he said.

"I know that," Dr. Yves replied, sounding sympathetic. "I have absolutely no doubt of that — and yet I've seen you lose control and I have to wonder what other sorts of things have happened when you lost control."

Winona's shocked, injured face paraded before his inner eye, and this time, he was the one who cringed.

"I know some things," Dr. Yves continued, relentless. "I know that you've gone out and almost picked up a stranger for sex. That in and of itself is dangerous. I know you've had violent thoughts about Zeke's friend, Winona. You've described some fairly intense fantasies, and then you told me that you were so hostile towards her at Zeke's birthday party that you felt you had ruined the day for him."

It was like she could see through him, even while missing the most important bits. And she must be able to see that there was a guilty truth pressing on the back of his throat.

"Casey? What else has happened when you got angry?"

He mumbled, unable to force it down, "Smashed...some things..."

"Did you hurt yourself?"

"Not really...no."

"Anything else?"

"I..." Hit Winona. And Zeke, not to mention almost hitting complete strangers who made the harmless mistake of bumping into him. He heard himself making the desperate confession, as thought it were actually involuntary, "I know it was wrong, but she wanted to erase me. It felt like...had no choice." Of course Zeke expected more from him, that he was at least smart enough not to volunteer damning information. Zeke would be so very disappointed in him — more disappointed, disgusted...and Sasha too, but it hardly seemed to matter when Yves had already decided he was...what he was.

"Who do you mean, Casey?"

"I didn't really hurt her. I was just out of control for a bit."

"Who, Casey?"

"Winona."

"When?"

"At the party."

"So there was more that you didn't tell me?"

"She was in the apartment...I couldn't deal with it, I felt...she was always after Zeke, she wanted him and that's a fact...and she hated me. I knew she hated me and I..." He put his face in his hands and sobbed, "She was going to hurt me...she touched me and I...I just lost it."

"What did you do?"

Lifting his face up was out of the question. He stayed in hiding as he answered. "I hit her in the face. She had a nosebleed...probably a black eye...that's all. I would have hit her more but my friends stopped me." He couldn't hold back anything anymore. He moaned, "I didn't mean it."

"You thought she was going to hurt you."

"Yes."

"How? In a direct physical sense?"

"She would...erase me...in-invade me...and when I was gone she'd have Zeke to herself."

"I see." For a time Dr. Yves was quiet, reflecting on this new information. Then she said, "Did someone in the past do that to you? Did they invade you?"

For no real reason, Casey felt himself shrink. He had known that question would come but, as always, hearing it out loud was another matter.

"Casey?"

"Just..." he whispered. "She tried."

"She?"

"The..." With the bitter knowledge of how it would be received, he looked up and said it: "The alien queen."

Dr. Yves sighed. "All right. Have you tried to hit or attack anyone else?"

"Dr. Chakri probably said I did."

"Well, she said you acted cornered sometimes, but you didn't actually hurt her, Casey. Have you ever hurt any other women? Back when you were in high school maybe?"

"No."

"Have you hurt anyone else at all? I mean physically only."

"I... Zeke."

"How many times?"

"Don't know...a few, I guess. Mostly I hurt his feelings, I think." Casey knew that he was nearly whispering, and forced himself to be audible. "Lately...sometimes he would touch me and I wanted to just punch him...but I stopped myself."

"When did you first notice that you felt this aggression towards him?"

"I don't know. I just...I don't want anyone to touch me."

"Not even Zeke."

"No."

"What about Sasha?"

"Sometimes," Casey choked. "Not even him."

"You've told me Sasha is the person you trust the most."

He shook his head. "It isn't about trust. My head says it's okay but when I feel someone's hand on me...it feels like something else."

Dr. Yves was making notes as she questioned him. "What are you thinking when someone touches you and it's scary? What is it that you fear?"

Hunched into the smallest shape he could make, he said, "I don't want to say."

"That they're aliens," she guessed.

There was no reason not to admit it now, but he was reluctant all the same, as though her recognition of it was proof that there was some reason for fear.

"You're thinking they'll invade you."

"I don't..." he faltered. "...yes..."

"Even Zeke and Sasha would do that?"

He stared at her, blinking. This time he just didn't know the answer.

"Does that mean they could be aliens too?" she angled.

"Don't."

"Don't what, Casey?"

"Don't... play with me."

"I'm not. I'm just trying to follow the things you've told me to their conclusion." Raising her head and the pen from the page, Yves added, "My difficulty, Casey, is that I know there's more than what you've told me. I would like to revisit your alien story, because I do believe that in a way it must be the source of some of these issues. I'd like to get to what's behind it."

He pinned his eyes on a blank spot on the wall.

"I can see how disappointed you are, Casey. I did think long and hard about this. You present as someone who has survived a lot of serious trauma but apart from the bullying at school I really don't know much of your history. I want you to give more thought to trusting me with some of it."

I did trust you, he thought. I did.

"Okay, Casey. I guess this is where we stand for now. I think we should discuss this more tomorrow but right now I'd like to get your father and Sasha in here for a talk."

"Tomorrow?" he echoed. "But it's...New Year's Eve tomorrow."

"Yes, I know, but I want to see you in the morning for a while. We will need to take Monday off, of course."

He nodded and slumped down in the chair, wondering how he could find the strength to get up and walk. His brain had emptied itself of everything except a few, taunting little phrases: Zeke was right, Zeke was right, Zeke was right... Zeke is always right and you fucking did it to yourself...

Meanwhile, Yves had gone to fetch Sasha and his father, for he soon heard Sasha's voice approaching from the hallway: "... I thought I heard shouting."

"Yes," Yves admitted. "There was a little. Nothing to worry about."

Now Sasha was in the room, his eyes searching for Casey and finding him quickly. "Hey, kitten," he said. Casey didn't let their gazes meet, but Sasha didn't seem to care. He took the chair nearest Casey and reached for his hand. "It's all right...isn't it?" Sasha finished, speaking to Yves.

"Casey and I have something of an understanding, but there is much more that we need to talk about," Yves answered. With a tilt of her head and a wave at the couch, she addressed Casey's father. "Have a seat, Frank."

Casey's father did not sit. He folded his arms, took a long breath and the words tumbled out of him as though he'd been planning and preparing to say this for the past hour or so: "I don't want my son in any hospital."

Dr. Yves granted him a smile. "You and Casey are in complete agreement on that issue, Frank. I might as well tell you then, that for now, Casey will be going home. We're going to try it and see how it goes."

At this, the brittle resolve seemed to go out of Casey's father; he gave way onto the couch, emitting a sigh.

"It does depend upon a few things," Yves continued. "First, I'm going to have him sign something called a No-Harm Agreement. It's a provision of the contract that he calls me immediately if he feels like he's on the brink of doing something to hurt himself. You also need to know that he is promising to come to therapy five times a week now. Frank, how long can you stay here in Seattle?"

"How long do you need me?"

"Family support is very important to this arrangement. Now, it isn't that Casey should never be alone, but for the next little while at least it would be good if there was someone around most of the time. Sasha can't always be there all the time, and Zeke is an unknown factor right now."

"Zeke's not out of the picture," Sasha interposed. "He'll be back."

"Yes," agreed Casey's father, drawing astonished stares from all sides. "He told me that he would be there for Casey indefinitely. I believed him."

"But he disconnected his cell phone," Casey blurted out.

Now the trio of stares was directed at him. His shrink gave the impression of being unconcerned, while his father bit his lip — and Sasha escalated from hand- holding to a strong arm around Casey's shoulders. "Zeke will be back on Wednesday," he affirmed.

"I can definitely stay until then," his father said. "And longer...if necessary."

"Excellent," was Yves' response.

None of them said it, but Sasha and Casey's father had to be thinking that if Zeke didn't return as planned on Wednesday, their company would become more a situation of minding the deranged. As far as Casey was concerned, they didn't appreciate how very futile it was. There was little point to arranging for a potential suicide watch when Yves was going to yank him into an institution, probably sooner rather than later. It seemed dishonest of her, not to mention ridiculous.

"Why bother?" he said, loudly overriding something his father had been asking Yves.

In response, Dr. Yves' brows shot up. "I'm sorry, Frank. What did you say, Casey?"

"I said, why bother with this? You know you're going to end up locking me up."

Sasha tried to pull him closer; he shrugged off the arm. Yves considered him without speaking for a second, then stated, "That's not a foregone conclusion."

"But you think I'm dangerous."

Sasha's reaction was gratifying. "What?" he demanded in open outrage. "Dr. Yves — "

"I don't think that, Sasha... and Casey. I have told Casey that I think there's some risk of him harming either himself or someone else."

"Then why let me go?" Casey challenged.

"Kitten, hush. This isn't helping."

"But she doesn't believe me," Casey said. "She told me."

"Believe you?" Sasha echoed. "What — about the aliens?"

"You told her that?" Casey's father broke in. "Casey, for god's sake."

A perverse, strange sort of inspiration seized Casey. He had his eyes pinned on his father, watching him flinch and react and generally behave like he usually did, and he thought about the way that he had never asked this man for anything, had never dared because he didn't want to cope with the inevitable disappointment. Now he couldn't seem to stop himself. His notions of risk had changed and his need was too great.

Casey found himself on his feet without remembering having stood up. "Dad, you have to tell her. You were there. No one who wasn't there will ever believe it and it wouldn't make any difference if Zeke or Stokely told her. As far as everyone's concerned we're just sick kids who hated our teachers and rebelled for no good reason but if you told her..." He broke off, gulping for air.

His father had become like a waxworks version of himself. All four people in the room stared at him, waiting, while he goggled at Casey in a kind of appalled wonder.

"Please, Dad," Casey begged. "Tell her."

His father licked his lips slightly, letting his mouth fall open. No sound came out.

"Dad."

Still, his father didn't say a word.

Blinded by feelings that should have been no surprise, Casey took several steps, heading for the door, the street, and whatever came after, but Yves' voice stopped him. "Wait, Casey. You still need to sign that agreement for me."

"Why?" he whispered, his back to her.

"Because I need you to do it before you leave."

There was the sense of motion behind him, the sound of desk drawers being opened and closed. There was his father's presence too, while Casey fought down a ten-year-old scream, the one he'd never used, the one that indicted Frank Connor as a lousy father who had let him down and left him to the bad guys, never once defended him because maybe he believed the wimp needed toughening up.

"Casey," Dr. Yves said. "Come here, please."

He went to her, refusing to look at his parent. He read through the document. It was straightforward, summarizing what she had already told him. He was to call her, or a crisis line if she couldn't be reached, in the event that he felt in danger, regardless of the time. He was to attend therapy five times a week. He understood that if circumstances changed and he or anyone else was in imminent danger, Dr. Yves would act accordingly.

He signed it.

Leading them out to the main office, Dr. Yves made a copy for him, handing it to him with a "See you tomorrow."

"Yeah."

"And Casey...please consider what we talked about. Think about what you want to discuss tomorrow. If you like, write it in your journal and bring it with you. It may be easier that way."

"Okay," he said, anxious to get away from her and feeling every single minute that he hadn't slept last night. "Bye."

"Thank you, Dr. Yves," Sasha said. "C'mon, kitten."

Casey didn't object to Sasha's gentle steering with a gesture or a light touch to get his attention, but his father's attempt to put a hand on his shoulder to guide him down the front steps of the building — that was another matter. He wrenched himself away, even letting his lip curl in revulsion. "Don't," he hissed, and showed himself down onto the sidewalk.

"Casey," his father said, taking a single, limping step.

"I'm going to walk home," Casey announced, with a glare.

"No, you're not," Sasha responded smoothly. "I don't feel like letting you out of my sight just now."

In answer, Casey started up the sidewalk at a run. He heard his name being shouted and the skittering of footsteps. He knew he would be caught and didn't make any great effort — and an instant later Sasha had his arm, holding him in place. He could have fought for freedom but he didn't. He just stood there, his skin rippling with the impulse to scratch and tear and rend, and he endured because that was Casey Connor. He who never fought, never resisted. Never said no.

"I just want to walk," he said, making one final appeal.

"I'll walk with you then," Sasha replied.

Casey shook his head. "Alone."

Sasha dropped his tone to a hush, presumably to spare Casey's father, supposing that he was in earshot and that he ever listened to a fucking thing to do with his son. "Kitten, you can't expect people to suddenly not be who they are."

It seemed to Casey that he'd always known this about his father. His mistake was having suddenly tried not-knowing it. He should have remembered that expectation would always bring disappointment, whereas acceptance meant nothing ever happened that he couldn't cope with.

He cast a look back at his father, who was standing by the car with his unhappy gaze fixed on the sidewalk, bracing himself to keep his weight off his injured foot, holding onto the car lightly with one hand. This was the same man who had hit Casey in the chest with a football, the same man who ignored and ignored him...the man who had sat across the dinner table from him and never once commented on the bruises... even when Casey had goaded Gabe into losing control so that he had a nice, fat shiner to display at home. His mother, predictably, had babbled in distress and accepted his lie, while his father had said nothing.

No, his father hadn't changed one iota and Casey knew he was a fucking idiot for having thought otherwise. If Frank Connor didn't have the capacity to understand a son who was different from what he wanted him to be, from himself, he sure as fuck didn't have the ability to process what happened to him at the hands of an alien race.

"Shall we tell him we're walking back?" Sasha inquired.

"No." Casey put one tired foot in front of the other, in the direction of Zeke's car. He did not say that his father was probably in no shape to drive. "I don't really have the energy anyway." He took up a waiting position beside the passenger-side with his back almost to his father, and waited for it to be unlocked. There was no option but to let his father open the door for him — it was either that or speak to him.

Climbing into his beloved, familiar backseat, he placed himself in the corner behind his father and ignored the painful attempts at chitchat up front.

 

The message light was flashing on the answering machine; Casey just glanced at it and went on his way. He was conscious of little but his imminent and highly anticipated nap. His eyes were on fire, his body leaden; he didn't aspire to anything more than to remove his shoes and jacket once they got in the door. Having done that, he went into Sasha's room and laid down but two seconds later he thought of his afghan and went to the other bedroom to retrieve it.

Suddenly, he heard Zeke...It was his voice, Zeke was here, Zeke was in the apartment as impossible as it was it was somehow possible and leaving the afghan, he ran to the kitchen with his heart thudding irregularly in his chest.

Sasha was standing next to the answering machine, a smile forming as he listened. "'...so that's all...bye for now,'" Zeke's voice wrapped up.

"What did he say?" Casey breathed.

"Here, I'll play it again."

With a high-pitched squeak, the machine coughed up the message again: "‘Hey, it's Zeke. Just wanted to let you know I'm at Jacob and Melissa's house. Just in case you tried my cell, I've been messing with the number. For now if you want to reach me, just call me here. It's...818-555-9770.'" There was a pause. "‘So, that's all...um...bye for now.'"

"You see?" Sasha said, with a grin that was, to Casey's eyes, somewhat relieved. "He's not disappearing on you, kitten."

The air in the kitchen had become too close, stifling all attempts at inhalation and Casey needed to get away, out...upstairs, even if it was chilly it didn't matter. Thoughts of napping had vanished, he didn't want to be lying down just now and he couldn't forget that his father standing there, disapproving of Casey's airs and vapours. As much as Casey didn't give a fuck about that particular person's opinion, he didn't want to hear it at the moment either. "I'm...going up on the roof for a minute," he panted.

"It's drizz — " Sasha began, then quickly relented. "Take your coat at least."

Then it was up the short flight of stairs to the roof, and Casey stood at the ledge looking at traffic and people down on the street, savouring the rain on his face. It occurred to him that he was a little bit like a person staring down execution. His mind protested that it wasn't fair, that there were yet so many sensations to be felt and enjoyed out here in the world. Moments of cool water on his feverish skin, the thrill of absorbing a new idea...Zeke's body thrusting hard against his...except he didn't have that last one anymore, really. All he had was a phone message. There was no remission for a slut's wanton behaviour, and the slut still had a shrink waiting to pounce, plus a father who was of no use to him. Zeke hadn't been much use that way either, come to think of it. Casey could forgive him for it, though, because he had to. And because it wouldn't matter if Zeke told Yves that the aliens were real. From her point of view, Zeke was no more believable than Casey. No, all Casey really needed from Zeke was fastened between his legs.

Such a hideous, repulsive thing, he was. Casey didn't want to die, no — but if he had killed himself when he had the chance, at least, he wouldn't be in the position he was in now. He could have expired believing that his problem boiled down to feeling too much. Everyone would have gone around forever more saying, Oh, Casey Connor...he died of a broken heart, poor thing. I never thought that it was possible but he did. But too late, he was a survivor after all, debauched and dangerous, a sickly thing lacking in sane emotions and wanting far too much. Maybe that was the difference between him and everyone else, in the end. He had just never been human enough.

"Okay," Sasha said from behind him. "I can't."

"Hmm?" Casey turned to see his friend standing at the top of the stairs, just inside the doorway.

"I can't let you be...and I wish you wouldn't stand so close to that ledge."

"I just signed a fucking contract, Sasha."

"Yeah, well, here's the thing. That's a promise that only has to be broken once." Sasha was coming closer as he spoke, pulling his coat around himself and glancing up at the clouded sky with a scowl.

The freshness of the damp air had quickly passed into a sense of chill; Casey folded his arms, conserving body heat. "I'm not breaking it." He too looked up at the sky, at the non-stop grey cover, then down at the world that he would soon be locked away from. "It doesn't matter, though."

"How do you mean?"

"You heard — Yves thinks I'm disturbed. Someone fucked me up way back in high school and now I'm acting out. She thinks the aliens are just a cover up for some tired old abuse story. The same as Spadoni did."

"Hmm."

There was an entire encyclopedia of things still unsaid in that small sound. Casey shot a look at Sasha, who gazed back evenly.

"I mean," Sasha explained, "I can kind of see where she's coming from."

"Well, thanks."

Sasha offered up a penitent wince, and went right on doing what he was doing. "Imagine that the things that happened to you...never happened to you. And then someone told you that aliens had invaded and that they take over people's bodies...but not to worry because you had already fought them off. Don't you think you might have trouble believing it?"

"Maybe," Casey grunted, profoundly hating this conversation. "It would depend..."

"On what?"

Rolling his eyes, Casey shot back, "If some disturbed kid like me told me, of course I wouldn't believe them. But if the kid's father who was as straight and boring as they come — if he told me, then that might make a difference."

Sasha didn't acknowledge the slight against the man downstairs. "Okay...so Yves is trying to digest the part about aliens and at the same time she knows she's missing some pieces of the story."

"What do you mean?" Casey said, but he threw in a challenging stare just to let Sasha know that he had a pretty good idea and he didn't like it at all.

"Did you tell her about Roy?"

"Of course."

Sasha raised both eyebrows. "But you left some parts out, didn't you?"

Officially, this was now a discussion of an unmentionable topic and Casey turned his face away in protest. Some parts. Things that Casey still had no memory of having told anyone, although he supposed he must have for he didn't know how else Zeke could have known what he now demonstrably knew. For months, Zeke had been trying crack him open and get to what he figured were the Definitive Casey Secrets, and how delighted he and Sasha must have been when Casey puked up a few while stoned stupid. Apparently the whole world knew everything about him and was just waiting for the right time to spring their traps on him.

"It wasn't my plan to have this conversation now," Sasha said after a long silence between them.

Casey wasn't buying that for a second. A replay of the tell-me-about-the- hotel game had been inevitable since the moment Casey had gotten off the plane from Cincinnati; the only difference between Sasha and Zeke was that Sasha was patient enough to let Casey imagine for a little while that it wasn't going to happen. "And I suppose you want to get all the facts," Casey heard himself snarl.

"No," Sasha replied quietly. "We don't have to get into detail. I know Zeke probably did that and I'm sure it wasn't fun. All I want is to ask..." Sasha took a breathe, obviously bracing himself for repercussion. "... is that you talk to Dr. Yves about it."

"'It'," Casey repeated.

"I mean...what happened with Roy and Janice."

Even knowing that it was coming, the mention of those two names triggered maniacal reactions. It was all Casey could do to stay intact and more or less in place, barely resisting the terrible burning sensation all through his abdomen and the jabber in his brain that said shutupshutupshutup but no use in telling anyone to shut up when he'd told Zeke to shut up all those times and it hadn't worked, and he'd told Sasha that, too, so Sasha wouldn't be having it this time. If he had to drive Casey insane to make a point, he was evidently prepared to do it.

"She doesn't have the full picture, Casey. I've seen the woman in action now and I'm pretty sure she knows you're holding back. She's not dumb."

Casey gnawed on his lip and frantically tried to summon an answer, or the absence of an answer that would somehow have the power to make this stop.

"Kitten? Are you going to stop glaring at me and talk to me?"

"It doesn't matter if I tell her every little thing about my life," Casey blurted. "It doesn't...I can't — and she's still going to want to lock me up because she doesn't believe in aliens and she never will."

"This isn't about the aliens."

"Yes, it is," Casey insisted, and heard a tremble in his voice. He couldn't fucking think anymore. He couldn't remember his last sleep.

"Why? Explain that to me."

Stamping his foot felt both silly and satisfying. "Because...because she thinks...!"

"Just calm down and tell me, kitten."

Casey gulped it: "As far as she's concerned...she thinks I'm nuts...and because of what I did to Winona, I'm scary nuts."

"You told her about Winona?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Casey...why?"

"Why not?" he returned bitterly. "I'm a monster who made people disappear from his high school. And Dr. Chakri helped by telling Yves how I'm this ticking time bomb."

Sasha was taking his turn at staring out at the city. "Shit."

"Yeah..." Casey whispered. "I'm fucked."

Sighing, Sasha put a hand on Casey's shoulder, ignoring his recoil. "If you're so fucked, Casey, why aren't you at the hospital right now?"

Casey's eyes were stinging. He didn't want to hear it anymore, didn't want to participate. "Wh-what?" he stuttered.

"It can't be that clear cut. She isn't sure...if she was sure, she wouldn't have let you sign that contract and go home."

Casey shook his head. Of course Yves was just biding her time and he couldn't figure out why Sasha didn't understand that. If there was anything that was obvious to everyone, it was that Casey Connor was a depraved and yet pitiable lunatic, a person who needed to be controlled for his own good and the good of everyone else. He was proving it right now.

Sasha pressed, "Didn't she say at the end of the session that she wanted you to think about something?"

"Yeah..."

"So she's giving you a chance to come clean, Casey, don't you see? Just help yourself and tell her. You tell her about the trouble you get into but you don't tell her why. If she knew why..."

Anger shot through Casey, reviving him for another salvo. He was really tired of hearing this tune. "When are you going to get it?" he gritted. "There's nothing to tell."

"Well...but that's a lie, kitten."

True or not, Sasha had never said such a thing to him before. Casey blinked, trying to adapt to a world where even Sasha thought the worst of him.

"You admitted it to me and Zeke," Sasha elaborated. "That night after the party you said — "

"I didn't — I don't remember!" Casey cried. "That's what I told Zeke in the car, and he must have told you, I know you two talk about me."

Sasha inhaled and exhaled carefully, said, "Zeke did tell me that you had a huge... discussion, and he confronted you about the hotel."

"You and Zeke..." Casey felt something crawl across his cheek; he touched his face, found fresh tears — fuck, they just kept coming. "You both think that I'll just be fixed if I tell her that one thing."

"I don't think that at all. I just think that it's a lot like the aliens. You knew you couldn't get well unless you talked about them."

"It's not — "

"I don't want to argue about it, kitten, it'll just make us both more upset. Will you do this for me?"

"Do what?" Casey muttered. Eyes dark with disappointment, Sasha shook his head. He opened his mouth to say something, no doubt that he was tired, fed up, it was ultimatum time even though Sasha didn't like ultimatums, deliberate guilt-making was more his style...and Casey threw out an answer before that could happen. "I don't know, okay? I could say yes but it would be a lie."

"Will you at least admit to yourself that it's necessary? Can you do that?"

"I don't know..." His throat worked against him, trying to close off even oblique reference to that. "Don't know if I can do it, Sasha." He glowered at his friend. "I suppose you're going to force me."

"Casey, no...I'd like to help you with it..."

Sasha attempted to soothe him with a touch, a stroke of his arm, and Casey cringed away. It felt unbearable; it felt like a violation even though he knew how it was intended. "Zeke did. He said 'you can't say no to me'." Casey found himself shuddering with rage. "Fucking prick."

"I'm sorry that Zeke did that," Sasha said. "I suppose he only wanted to get things out in the open — "

"Well, he got that!" Casey hugged himself and continued his shaking, spitting up words. "I told him more than he wanted to hear...told him about Thomas."

Across from him, Sasha went absolutely still.

"I told him," Casey said again. "Zeke sent me home...he didn't want me with him."

"No wonder he was so angry on the phone."

"I don't think he'll forgive me."

"He is a jealous kind of person, that's for sure," Sasha observed. "But he's also pretty understanding."

"But he can't bear to be made a fool of...and I've done it to him twice now."

"There's a big difference between sleeping with Roy and a bit of flirting with a stranger, Casey. I'm sure it hurt Zeke's feelings but it's —"

"I would have done it. I wanted it." Casey stared in the direction of the adjacent building, the better not to see Sasha's inevitable disgust with him. "I'm garbage and now Zeke knows it."

Indeed, when Sasha spoke it sounded as though he were reaching his limit. "Kitten...there's a simple equation that you seem to keep missing here. Just because Roy treated you like garbage doesn't mean that you are. I know that you can understand this."

"He knew the way I am, he knew me and that was why — "

"No!" Sasha suddenly had him firmly by the shoulders, forcing him to meet a ferocious, outraged countenance. "No, he did not know you. I'm sorry if I'm harsh here, but I'm tired of you putting yourself down. It's like I can tell you ten or a hundred or a million times that you are not worthless, that you are my friend who I love and respect and still in your mind all of that doesn't add up to one single time that Roy treated you like shit!"

It was not a violent grip. Casey knew that Sasha would never hurt him — but all the same his body was tensed for flight and Sasha, seeming to realize it, removed his hands from Casey's shoulders all at once in a single gesture.

"I — I understand you being fed up," Casey mumbled.

Sasha shook his head. "I'm not fed up with you. I get a little frustrated is all...but it's not your fault." Sasha was almost speaking to himself. "You know me. I can't stop talking, I'm going to keep trying to tell you what to do...because the more you protest and deny it, the worse it gets in my mind. I just know that Yves has to know about the hotel, Casey. She has to hear it."

"You're going to — to tell her then."

Sasha ran a shaky hand through damp hair. "It should come from you."

"Go ahead," Casey spat, his shivering escalating from steady to violent. "Zeke will if you don't."

Sasha gave him a long stare, thinking things that Casey was sure he didn't want to know. Then Sasha looked away; he fidgeted a little, looking at his watch. "We're going to have to finish this tomorrow, I'm running out of free time."

Casey knew that he was close to saying some very unwholesome things — perhaps friendship-breaking sorts of things. He bit down on his lip, intent on discovering how much he could make it hurt before he flinched back. Maybe he could even make it bleed.

"I don't like leaving you tonight," Sasha was saying, "but I have to. Tonight and tomorrow are the busiest nights of the year." Taking a step towards the stairs, Sasha paused. "I was wondering about Zeke. Should we phone him and let him know what's going on?"

Clenching his jaw, Casey jerked his head back and forth several times. The stilted motion made his head throb — but wanting to talk to Zeke, or at least to hear Zeke's voice, wasn't the same as wanting Sasha to talk to Zeke.

"He'd probably want to know," Sasha said. "Even if there's nothing he can do from there. Maybe I'll just call to touch base so he knows we're...okay." He resumed his trek in the direction of the stairs, adding, "I do hope you'll cut your father a little slack."

This time Casey was caught off guard, and the uncharitable words left his lips before he could take steps to hold them back. "What, so he's your best friend now?"

Sasha wheeled about, showing Casey a stern face. "Haven't you noticed how tired he is, Casey? He didn't get any sleep last night."

"Neither did I," Casey muttered.

"I'll take that as a no, then. Come downstairs, will you?"

"It's not like I'll freeze to death. And I'll probably survive if I jump."

Sasha's lips thinned. "I said, come down."

Casey would admit — to himself, not to Sasha — that he really was chilled through and not enjoying it. Without a word he followed Sasha down the stairs.

Descending into their kitchen, his gaze snagged on the small pile of dirty dishes, just a minor build-up from last night to now. It was a little thing, but it could be the start of atonement. And it would occupy his mind for a few minutes. He began to fill the sink with hot water, bending down to retrieve the soap from the cupboard underneath.

"Hey..." Sasha started. "Those can wait — "

"No, they can't," Casey snapped.

"Okay, fine."

Sasha went quiet, and Casey could feel his eyes on the back of his neck, on his bowed head. Silently he urged Sasha not to bother feeling bad or mad or sad — whatever Casey Connor tried, he fucked up, that was just the reality. It wasn't fair and it wasn't anything Sasha should let himself feel guilty about.

A series of eleven beeps sounded out in Casey's vicinity, evidence of a long distance number being dialled; Sasha must be calling Zeke, reading the number off the scrap paper on top of the microwave where he had inscribed it earlier. Casey kept his head down and his hands in the water, hoping that Sasha would not ask him to take a turn.

"Darn," Sasha said after a pause. "No answer...we're playing tag..." His voice firmed, inflected for voicemail. "Hello. I'm calling for Zeke Tyler...? Got your message, sweetheart. I'm about to head out to work...I'm just thinking about you, hope you're doing okay. Talk to you later." There was another beep as Sasha disconnected. "I'm sure he's just busy with wedding stuff."

Casey just scrubbed at a dollop of melted cheese on the plate he was washing, not wanting to argue with Sasha anymore. So what if Zeke had called to let them know he was alive. That didn't mean he actually wanted to speak to any of them, least of all his inconstant, fucked-up ex-lover.

Sasha, however, still had a boyfriend who liked him and answered his calls; shortly, he had a live person on the phone with him. "Hi, babe," he said, his tone softening to something much happier than a moment ago. Wandering off down the hall, he carried on conversation. "Oh, I know, it's going to be a madhouse, but it's kind of...well, I'm looking forward to it...hmm, I don't know...okay, maybe a quick one...okay, I'll meet you there in forty-five minutes..." Sasha made a smacking sound. "Kisses."

A motion in front of Casey startled him into looking up.

"I'm going to try to fix the bathroom door," his father announced, his eyes fixed on a spot somewhere above and to the right of Casey's head. "I don't suppose you boys have a toolbox around here."

"Sasha has one," Casey muttered. "In the hall closet."

"Okay...but I probably need a hardware store anyway." His father drifted towards the door of the apartment. "Is there one in the neighbourhood?"

"I'm not sure."

"Oh...well, I'll find one."

Rinsing his plate, Casey said nothing. His father put on his gear and slipped out the door, neither of them having anything to say to the other.

After finishing up the dishes, Casey went into the living room and curled up on the couch, turning on the TV. He was desperately tired but determined not to succumb to it just yet. He didn't know why, except that he was in the kind of mood to be contrary even with himself. Searching for the most mindless thing he could find, he ended up staring numbly at Real Life. Then, despite his stubborn mood he must have nodded off, for it seemed like a few minutes later when he blinked hard and found Sasha standing in front of him, dressed for work.

"Where's your father?" Sasha demanded.

"He..." Casey pushed himself up onto an elbow, yawning. "... went to find a hardware store."

"When did this happen?"

"I don't know...when I was doing the dishes."

"Why didn't you tell him I was planning to go out?"

"You didn't say..."

"Casey. You must have heard me talking to Jerry."

Looking Sasha right in the eye, Casey lied, "I didn't."

Sasha scowled.

"Anyway, Dr. Yves didn't say I could never be alone."

"Casey..."

"Well, she didn't. There can't be someone with me every minute...and besides, I'm sure he'll be back very soon." Casey pushed himself onto his feet. "I'm going to my room now."

He meandered past a Sasha who seemed to be unable to muster a further argument, or was perhaps speechless with anger just then. Under the circumstances it seemed best that Casey go back to his original room, where his afghan happened to be waiting for him. He curled up and closed his eyes, knowing that sleep was a risk...but he was too fatigued to properly weigh it.

In any case, his sleep was absent of dreams. One moment he was blinking at the ceiling, trying to hold his eyelids apart for just a few more seconds, and the next he was startled awake by the sound of hammering. The light had gone dim, passing from day to not quite dark. He lay listening to his father's handy-man routine for a while, with his afghan pulled all the way up to his neck.

At length, he sought for his journal. He rolled onto his stomach, propping himself over his pillow to write.

December 30th.

Pausing, he thought about writing something of the past several days' events, all the things that he had absolutely failed to record, but just felt tired at the prospect. He stared at the scant lines he had managed yesterday. It was probably better to just start from the Right Now. He didn't want to revisit what he had felt last night, he didn't even want to go there for fear that the thoughts of self-destruction had some terrible, magical influence. They might take over his mind again and make him do things he didn't want to do.

He began writing.

Today was all about talking and getting nowhere. I said and did things that are strange, for me, I know that, and I know it should be a good thing but it still feels bad. It feels like everything is ending. So why did I try so hard to explain things, to make it hurt less? Somehow I must have thought it would help something. Stupid of me, but I do want to be happy. I do. I forgot to tell Yves that, not that it would have made a fucking difference. I never thought I would be in this position with her. I did so many good things to help myself, like everyone tells me I should, and all I succeeded in doing was fucking myself over. It's like everything Zeke ever predicted has come true.

I miss him. Well, I think I miss him. Okay, I know I miss the feeling of him being around and I definitely miss the fucking, but do I really miss him? I do want to talk to him but when I think about the things he said to me in the car, I feel like kicking him in the head. I want what he can give me but I don't want him to touch me either. It's a huge fuck-up.

There's something wrong with me. I'm not in denial about that. I'm supposed to be pretty smart, actually. I don't know if that's true but I'm pretty sure that a smart person would be able to figure out this crap. I'm going to try to do that. Because a smart person would force themselves to consider that they're wrong. It's not like they're going to let it rest. Zeke certainly won't, so I need to be prepared. See, Yves, what a good patient I am? I don't need a hospital even if I am a strung out weirdo.

Okay, here goes. I'll write it down, but I'm not saying I'll talk about it.

Casey lifted his head, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. He continued to do that, while minutes passed. Finally, he forced himself to move his hand on the page.

So I had sex with Roy and Janice this one time.

His eyes were closed again. He made them look, made them trace the curves and lines of ink. That's all it was, after all. Curves and lines. It didn't mean anything but what he happened to invest in it and if he chose to think of it as nothing more than an exercise — then that's all it was. An exercise.

It's true, he scribbled, that at the end of it I was pretty much a disaster. First of all, Roy caught me completely by surprise. No, it made me really, really MAD that he would even ask me to do that. I know how mad I am at him. I called him that time and yelled at him and smashed the telephone that time. I didn't want to have sex with her but the thing is, I didn't say no. If I got hurt by it, that wasn't his fault. I could have refused to do it but I didn't. I should have, maybe. If I had, I wouldn't have had to feel that rejection, that terrible cold, knowing that I was too different. Nobody wanted me, and so maybe I don't like to talk about how that felt. It felt awful, but just for a few seconds there was something about it that was so fucking special. I don't think I can ever make anyone understand that.

Okay, then, but Sasha will say and ZEKE will say, if it was something wonderful that happened, Casey, why are you so afraid of me? Or if not me, Winona and Chakri and others? Why do you zone out when we have sex, and get all shaky and weird about it?

In fact, he was shaking now. "Just an exercise," he whispered. "Just words."

Continuing, he wrote, I'm not afraid of sex with Zeke. I'm not. I need him, it's just, the thing with even the most important experiences is, they can hurt. It's hard to control my automatic reactions to that. I twitch and I cry, but the hurt is just the price that has to be paid. I'll live with it, if only others would accept that. I have to push myself past the point of comfort, that's the cost of having something beautiful, for me. There are things that are extreme, and beautiful, and beautiful because they are extreme. Blood or tears are just a part of them.

Of course there's no way to explain this. I don't know what to do. I'm going to be locked up. No one believes me about aliens, no one believes that there are parts of me that don't need to be fixed. I'm begging Sasha not to tell on me and he's going to do it anyway, and meanwhile I'm begging my dad to tell and he WON'T. It's pretty fucking hilar

"Well, that's done."

With an alarmed cry, Casey jumped and twisted quickly to see who was standing in his bedroom door.

"Sorry about that," his father said. He cleared his throat. "Ahem...I should go call your mother, let her know I'll be staying longer." He paused. "I will be staying longer, right?"

"Do what you like," Casey replied, quickly moving into a much less vulnerable, cross-legged position.

His father breathed audibly. "I know you're not happy with me," he said.

"I don't give a shit what you do."

"Don't be a child, Casey, you're nearly twenty years old."

"What does that have to do with it? Nothing I say is taken seriously."

His father was rubbing his eyes and forehead like they were hurting him. "You can't seriously expect me to tell her I saw aliens — which I did not."

"So I just made it up?"

"No..."

"Oh, so I'm crazy, then."

"You're not..." His father trailed away, staring at him. "I think...well, maybe it was a way of getting attention."

Oddly enough, Casey could feel his eyeballs drying out rather than filling up. Somewhere in him he was hurt, enraged, all of it — but the disbelief was far more powerful at this moment. This was avoidance to the point of delusion, because there was no doubt in Casey's mind that his father and all the rest of them remembered the events of three years ago. He knew, and he knew what Zeke would never even entertain — that they missed their servitude to the aliens and secretly hated Casey for ending it. The whole lot of them, human or not, wanted to avenge themselves against him.

He was off the bed, on his feet.

"Where are you going?" his father asked, taking a step back.

What's it to you? Casey almost snapped. Rather, he answered, "To get a sandwich," as he faced his father. He glanced up into the older man's face, just as quickly looking away. Before he moved on he said, eyeing the floor, "I thought...maybe just for once you would stand up for me."

In the kitchen, he threw together a cheese sandwich, making quick work of it. His father hovered around him for a minute or two, said nothing and then disappeared, no doubt to the living room. As Casey passed the microwave with plate in hand he saw the phone lying there in its cradle and took it up, tucking it under his arm. He also claimed the piece of paper with Zeke's contact info. Phone, paper and cheese sandwich accompanied him to his room with its hints and scraps of Zeke, and he shut the door on the rest of the universe.

The plate was set down on the bedside table. Crawling onto the bed, Casey stared at the phone for a while, still clutching the scrap of paper.

Call him, his mind lilted, nearly making music of it. Callll...himm...

"No," he said.

Just because Zeke hadn't been intending to cut him off by messing with his cell phone account didn't mean that Zeke was any less angry or any more interested in communicating with him. If he were, he would have kept trying to phone instead of just the one time, leaving a message. He would have called until he got a live person, so of course he didn't actually want to hear Casey's voice or speak to him. To even try at this point was nothing better than self-punishment.

He reached for and took a bite of his sandwich...chewed six times, and swallowed. Then he put aside the sandwich. He reached for the paper with Zeke's number.

More or less as expected, the phone rang numerous times; then the answering machine kicked in with Jacob's voice. He hung up without leaving a message and curled into the smallest, most fetal of shapes with one of the pillows hugged to his face, wallowing in its scent, the same scent that just happened to be on his own hair today.

I'll never hate you, Casey.

And Zeke had called him a liar.

He must have slept again, for he woke suddenly with a gasp, struggling to breathe. There had been hands again, and other appendages, skin and not skin, steamy-wet and hard and rough, he couldn't move as flesh pierced his flesh and he'd cried takemetakemetakeme and now here again he was alone, shaking with the terrible solitude as he sat bolt upright. Rubbing away the icy tears on his face, he clung to the distant rumble of the television in the other half of the apartment, the only suggestion that he wasn't alone — but he was alone, of course, for the other person could not be counted on, would give him nothing that he needed. No one would either, unless he went out to find them or he could speak to Zeke, tell him, beg him...comehomepleaseI'lldoanything...you won't be sorry, I'll make sure of it, you'll never know pleasure like I'll give you, it'll be worth it, just be with me so I don't have to feel like this...

Almost mindlessly he scrabbled for the phone that had been lying on the bed with him all this time, and pressed redial.

On the fifth ring, a strange woman answered. "Hello?"

Her voice was sensual, on the low side. It went into Casey like a contagion, it stole all the strength from his body.

"Hello? Hello..."

Casey punched talk and threw the phone on the floor with a moan.

Right now, Dr. Yves and Sasha and just about any sane person would tell him, it was paramount that he not let this get to him. They would insist that he get a grip, a bit of perspective. It was just a woman answering the phone where Zeke was staying, a young woman with a sexy voice. It didn't have to mean anything. It could be a cousin, aunt, friend... it could be the maid. Zeke's father was rich and he was getting married. There would be dozens of people in that house, Casey had no cause to freak out...although if there were dozens, someone would probably have answered when he called before but still he mustn't, above all he mustn't overreact. He'd deserve whatever shit Zeke heaped upon the already steaming pile if he let himself be freaked out about this.

Do a mood log, that would be the chorus. Do a fucking mood-log, Case... doo-da...doo-da...do a fucking mood log now...

He threw himself stomach-down on the bed and yanked open his journal. He turned to a fresh page, uncapped his pen — and then he sat there staring down at it. Then he stared at the piece of cellophane on the desk for a while.

Finally, he made himself write something: I tried to call Zeke. There was a woman there.

All right, this was the part where he wrote down his feelings about that — but what was the fucking point? His feelings were crap, they meant nothing to no one, no fucking purpose to it, no way he wasn't going to be locked up soon because he wanted to hurt something now. Or somebody.

I don't want to be this person, he ranted. I don't, I don't...I know I'm being crazy but I don't know how to stop. I don't even care. He HAS left me. He has, and with good reason too. He could do whatever he wants now and he's so far away. If he was here I would beg him, I would do whatever it took to make him come back, to keep him with me. I know I have the power to do that. Maybe I'm mad at him and maybe he hates me but I could still get him to fuck me if I want to. Lucky for him he isn't in the same fucking city. He fucking ran away from me, that's what he did. He knew what would happen if he stayed, he knew I would break him.

Casey laid his cheek flat on the page and made noises that were pathetic even in his own ears, sounds that just scratched the surface of the maelstrom in his head.

There was no point to not fucking up. Maybe he had given up on the melodramatic thoughts of ending it all and going to gay heaven, but there was still Yves tomorrow, ready to fit him with a straightjacket — which was really the right and proper thing to do. A doctor had a patient who attacked people at random, who was so twitchy he wouldn't even let his loved ones comfort him, and he made up shit about aliens besides. Possibly involved in the deaths of some women too...he really needed a nice, secure environment, that boy. A place where he couldn't really do any more damage.

At least at the hospital there would be lots of people around. Casey was sure that he could make friends with one of them. Maybe more than one, more than friends — so he'd never have to be alone. Not like now.

He crept to the living room to see what his father was doing. Predictably, he was sleeping in Sasha's chair, his head tipped back, his injured foot resting on the coffee table. The snore was loud even against the hum of the sports channel.

Casey stood there and stared at his father for a time.

Then he turned, going to the closet. Despite the certainty that his father was deep in sleep and wouldn't be waking any time soon, nevertheless he was careful not to make any noise. He put on his coat and the orange scarf Sasha had bought him and set forth from the apartment without a sound.

The day's rain had turned to sleet and ice was everywhere in the dark, some glittering white and some undoubtedly hidden in shadow. Casey took the slippery steps carefully, pausing only when he got to the sidewalk. Hunkered down in his coat, he watched strangers pass and tried to think when or if he'd been out on a Saturday night in Seattle before. He might have but he couldn't recall; he just knew he didn't remember the neighbourhood ever seeming quite so busy. The weather seemed to be having little impact; the streets were busy. Maybe it had to do with it almost being New Year's Eve, or maybe it was just a Saturday during the holiday season.

His hope, his priority at that moment, was to encounter Thomas. He wouldn't deny himself, wouldn't deny what he was after, which was simply to get what he needed...and if he didn't find Thomas he would have to settle for whomever he could find. He kept watching for his strange friend as he traversed the street and block but at the same time made eye contact with a few men, just to see how they responded. They would sometimes give him a once over before they moved on. Other times they frowned, or smiled. Not one seemed ready to claim him and that was probably for the best because he would start screaming if they tried — but oh, how he hoped they would try. If they tried, he would try too and that was probably enough to keep them around for at least a few minutes.

On the other hand, if it was a stranger he was dealing with, he would have to talk to them at least a little, enough to persuade them that he was worth their time. He would so much rather have someone who already knew him. Someone like Thomas who seemed to care for him in a strange way, who had given him advice... really disastrous advice as it turned out and Casey wouldn't mind telling him so either. After running into Thomas so many times by accident, it was inconceivable that he wouldn't just find him on the street.

His mind whispered of a strategy...try Rob, the guy who breathed and lived the coffee shop, who probably knew more of Thomas' activities than anyone. Immediately Casey turned a full 180 degrees...yeah, Rob might have seen Thomas, and Rob must be at Zorba's, because he was always there.

From a distance, the coffee shop was a bright, warm destination, a familiar beacon. Up close, it reeked of threat. Every table was taken and the line-up for ordering drinks almost filled the shop. Casey could just barely catch a glimpse of Rob behind the counter. He targeted him without thinking, pushing through the door and then the crowd.

"Hey, there's a line here," someone said.

A pressure fell on his forearm and almost instantly he felt a spasm from his stomach moving up to his throat. He was going to puke. He tried to force his way through, his blind intention now to get to the bathroom, and tripped over something he couldn't see, at which point another hand fell upon the join of his neck and shoulder, sliding past his coat collar to reach a small patch of bare skin. A new sound came out of him, something like an attack scream crossed with the groan of a dying animal. He tried to kick and flail but everything was too enclosed — and then unexpectedly there were even more hands on him and unfriendly intentions communicated themselves through his skin.

An old switch got flipped. He folded into a small bump on the floor, clenching all his limbs together to protect the most vulnerable areas.

"What the hell?"

"What did you do?"

"I didn't touch him! Hey, kid, come on — "

"Maybe he doesn't hear you."

"Get up, no one's going to hurt you."

Someone tried to make him come out of his huddle with a grip on his arm. He felt a growl in his throat, and was on the brink of sinking his teeth into someone's flesh.

"What's this? What's going — "

That was a familiar voice.

"Oh," his rescuer said, and then to some of the throng: "Hang on, I know him."

Prepared to retract into his protective crouch, Casey raised his head. He saw that a space had formed around him and Rob was squatting next to him. Without preamble Rob took hold of his arm and guided him upwards. He shrugged furiously, trying to get it offoffoffgetitoff! With a dismissive frown Rob lifted his hands up and simply waved for him to follow him off to one side. Casey did so amidst relieved applause, giving suspicious stares over his shoulder as he went. He saw a group of perhaps five people staring back at him while others watched from their seats, or their place in the line.

Aliens everywhere.

"What the hell was that?" Rob said, low-voiced.

Casey jammed his hands in his pockets, his shaking uncontainable. "S- sorry."

"This isn't that kind of bar, you know. We don't have fights."

"I — I just w-wanted to ask you a question," Casey said, staring at the floor.

"Okay."

"Have you s-seen Thomas?"

"The seminar guy? You know he's not allowed in here."

Casey kept his chin low, occasionally peering up to meet Rob's eyes. "I know, but I just..."

The face of the man opposite him had smoothed into something slightly more tolerant. He said, "Well, not in here anyway. I have seen him lurking about on the street."

"When?"

"Look, you shouldn't talk to him. I think he's dangerous..." Rob trailed away and his thought was obvious. On the other hand, so are you.

"I'm sorry," Casey said again.

"Yeah...well, let's assume this was a one-time thing."

It was then that Casey noticed how Rob was engaged in a blatant examination of him, much as he would have performed a double take of some bizarre sea creature, something never before seen in his life. It was not truly a benevolent stare, and yet Casey began thinking about how Rob really wasn't bad-looking when he was making an effort to be less unfriendly... and at least his was a slightly more familiar face than most. Sure, Rob had never really seemed to like Casey, but that didn't have to matter. He had rescued Casey just now, and maybe it would be enough if Rob was intrigued by him. Maybe that was enough to keep his attention.

"Thank you for helping me," Casey said, gazing steadily at Rob through his lashes.

"Um..." Rob looked uneasy. "Don't mention it. I need to get back behind..."

Casey put a hand on his arm. "Do you have a break coming?"

"Maybe...why?"

"I thought you might want to...um...have a coffee with me?" And he was appalled, he loathed himself but not enough to override the desperate fear that he was getting nowhere and the even greater fear of success, the dread of what would happen when he failed.

Rob's mouth quirked; it could have been a smile or a frown. He looked down at the part of Casey that was touching him and said, "Coffee? Ah...no, thanks. I get more than enough coffee."

Casey's cheeks heated at the rejection, and he cursed to himself — fuck, fuck, fuck, it was hopeless really, subtlety was foreign to him because he'd never needed it with Roy or Zeke and he would do better to just drag Rob into a bathroom stall and tell him straight out what he was willing to do for him.

"Are we done?" Rob asked.

Not until I get down on my knees and blow you, baby. Not particularly clever, but it would be to the point.

"I..." Casey whispered.

"You what? Come on, I'm working here, you know."

Step into the bathroom with me, just for a few minutes. You won't regret it, baby.

Rob shuffled backwards; his motion shook off Casey's hand. "You should probably go home," he said, in a voice that was not especially kind. He presented his back to Casey, who could only turn and negotiate a path to the door, trying to not feel the eyes all over him.

Out on the sidewalk he stood for a terrible stretch with his fingers pressed against his face.

He began to walk, peering down cross-streets, hoping to run into his strange friend even as he chanted and despised himself...filth, filth, filth...filth who would do anything for anyone now, even a person who demonstrably didn't like him, and after all the trouble he had made for himself already by acting this way...yeah, he was filth, but seeing as he knew it and he was reconciled to it there should be no need to struggle against it anymore, he just needed to find someone to help him not be alone and single and empty if he could just fucking find them —

Long into his dark and damp adventure, he found a crevice between two buildings and crouched there. His fingers and toes grew numb first, and then gradually the rest of his body. He thought about going home, only to remember that he would be just as alone there, even more so because out here he had the hope of finding Thomas...or if not Thomas, someone to replace him. Except he didn't want someone else, hadn't really wanted Rob. He wanted Thomas, with his knowing smile and his bass rumble. Thomas represented danger, but he was safety too.

But then Casey knew he didn't really want Thomas either. Any cock will do, any cock... No, he wanted Zeke, and home. He couldn't figure out why that should be so much to ask —

Fuck, yes, he could. It was him and he should be past hurting about it. Except he wasn't. He fucking wasn't. The emptiness, it was...it was. It just was. He needed someone, something...Zeke. But Zeke had left him, Zeke was appalled and disgusted by him, just as he should be and he was empty again...just empty. How could it hurt so much, being nothing? Anything was better, he knew that just as before when he'd gone to that room and...yes, he remembered everything...being face down on a bed, another being entering and nothing in him but don'tsaynodon'tsaynodon't sayno. He had to have wanted it and how could he not want to feel that way... taken so far from himself, taken to bliss, pure, absolute, blind feeling. So what if he felt like he was being torn apart. So what if the person inside him didn't give a damn about what he actually felt. It was what it was. It was beautiful, being nothing, being...this. All the same, said the feelings that swelled and warmed him and wanted to cry thank you, thank you so good, so good no stopping no stopping...he didn't say no, he didn't own that word. There was only acceptance.

"Kid. Hey, kid."

He peeled back crusted lashes, apprehending that he was nearly frozen through by now and it had to be very, very late. A couple, male and female and about his parents' ages, were standing over him, peering down at some strange boy who seemed to have taken up residence in the space just between sidewalk and alley. "What?" he croaked.

"Hey, do you have somewhere to go?" the woman asked.

He wasn't sure of the answer to that. His eyes were drawn to the traffic lights just behind and to the right of her...green...yellow...and then red, blurry red with white sparks.

"Do you have somewhere to live?" she tried.

That, he knew the answer to. He nodded.

"Well, you should go there, dear. It's cold and it's late." The woman nudged her male friend, or partner, or husband, who didn't appear quite as well-intentioned. "Right," he concurred. "Do you need some help up?"

Casey shook his head. "Don't touch me," he warned.

"It's all right," the woman soothed. "Are you hurt? Do you need a hospital?"

"No," he said, and some strength seeped back into him. "I don't need a fucking hospital!"

They both reared back. "All right," the man said. "Now don't get excited."

Casey used the brick wall behind him to brace himself as he struggled upright.

"Do you live near here?" the man asked. He moved forward again but held the woman back with a hand, keeping her sheltered behind him.

"Yeah..." Casey slurred. "Coupla blocks."

"We'll walk with you."

"No...no, that's...not necessary."

"It's okay, it's very late and you seem a bit young — "

"I said no," he repeated. "Thank you."

He set his feet, waiting until they finally gave up and walked off in the opposite direction, the back of his neck prickling. It wasn't safe out here at all, even if most of the people were no longer around. Keeping an eye open in every possible direction, he stumbled home, thinking with longing of getting warm...warm shower, warm bed...warm shower, warm bed...he wasn't very far from it. It couldn't have been more than a fifteen minute walk before home was right in front of him.

Taking the stairs up to his apartment at a reckless run, he slipped and nearly fell on them, recovering at the last second. Anxious to be inside, he fumbled out his keys with hands that had lost all feeling some time ago but before he could turn the key in the lock, the door flew in and he stumbled into Sasha, who was standing right there. "Oh, god, oh, god!" Sasha's hands scrabbled over Casey, taking the breath from him, crushing him. His skin felt feverishly hot where it brushed Casey's cheek.

Casey's father's voice boomed, "Where the hell were you!"

Sasha stepped back so that Casey could actually see, and breathe, and he saw that both Sasha and his father looked like they'd been having a rough night. Jerry was standing there also, appearing only slightly less harried. "What time is — " Casey started, but Sasha spoke over him.

"We were about to call the police," he said.

"I'm sorry," Casey said.

"Don't say that, I don't want to hear it." Sasha was crimson from his collar to his hairline. His eyes glittered with ambivalent tears, simultaneously expressing relief and rage. "I'm furious at you."

"I was just walking."

"For four hours? You didn't even tell your dad you were leaving."

"Do you have any idea what it felt like to wake up and find you were gone?" his father ranted, his volume low but still sufficient to make Casey cringe. "Do you? Do you know what we thought?"

"Like you care," Casey said under his breath.

"What did you say? What did you just say to me?"

Loudly, Casey replied, "I said you don't give a shit."

"That's — that's not — " his father sputtered. "I want to know what you were doing!"

Casey shrugged out of his coat, let it drop on the floor, and kicked off his shoes. "Okay, if you must know I was getting fucked by some stranger in an alley."

"Casey!" his father gasped.

"Yeah, that's right," Casey said. "It's time you really got to know your son, Dad."

Sasha said, "Frank, he's just trying to get a rise out of us."

"Oh, but getting a rise out of guys is what I do best," Casey sneered

Initially, Sasha rolled his eyes — but almost at the same instant he was glancing uneasily at Casey, like he knew or suspected that it wasn't out of the realm of possibility for Casey to come on to strangers, and if he could come on to strangers then strangers could very well take a hands-on interest. Frowning, Sasha touched Casey's arm and said, "We'll discuss this more another time." Casey tried to shove him away, at which point Sasha's touch transformed into open restraint.

"All right, okay!" Jerry intervened. "Let's calm down, everyone. He's back, he's safe. Casey, I'm sure you're sorry for worrying everyone...Sasha, let him go."

"He needs to get out of these wet things," Sasha pronounced.

"And he can look after it himself, I'm sure."

Sasha released Casey and half-turned away from him, towards his boyfriend. "You'd think," he choked.

Casey ignored the tears in his friend's eyes, setting off down the hall.

"Where are you going?" Sasha called, his voice thick.

"To drown myself," Casey tossed back.

The bathroom door wasn't quite capable of being slammed but at least it could be locked. Securing this flimsy barrier to the rest of his life, Casey turned his stare on the expanse of white floor, making no attempt to undress. For some time, he tried actively to bring forth the haze that had once terrified and bewildered him, breathing hard, making every effort to actively summon his own escape. Although he soon grew dizzy from hyperventilation and glowing spots grew before his eyes, the haze itself didn't arrive. He gave up, got undressed and stepped into the shower, hoping that the humidity and warmth of that space might do the trick. After all, so many of his zone-outs had started there.

But nothing...and not a good kind of nothing. Reality was absolutely relentless, even after he turned the cold as far down as he could manage...until he could view the white steam rising in the shower stall and his skin stung beneath the spray. Still he existed, and there was not a fucking thing he could do about it.

At length, there was a pounding outside the bathroom door. "Casey, get out of there now!" Sasha shouted from the hall.

"Go away!" Casey yelled back, burying his sob in it.

"I don't want to have to ruin your dad's repair job!"

There was no recourse but to submit to the authorities. Casey turned off the water and dried himself, taking his time with it. He wrapped himself in two towels, reluctant to leave the tropical climate of the bathroom.

When he opened the door a great cloud of steam was emitted, and he supposed he wasn't surprised to find Sasha there waiting. He caught a glimpse of reddened eyes and a sorrowful gaze. His own tears began welling up, and he tried to brush past before they could overtake him — whereupon he discovered that the door to his bedroom was shut.

"Your dad needs a good night's sleep," Sasha informed him. "I told him to crash."

His father had claimed his bed...the bed with the pillows that still bore a faint scent of Zeke, but it was probably just as well. He couldn't afford to risk anymore outbursts of the crazies tonight — except, he did need some clothing. Casey reached for his bedroom door.

"Casey," Sasha said, very near growling.

"I need clothes."

"Oh...fine, but try not to disturb him."

His father wasn't asleep; a blanket-covered shape flopped about to look at Casey in the dark, but there was no conversation. Casey hurried to retrieve a fresh t- shirt and shorts before leaving, closing the door once more. Naturally, Sasha was still haunting the hall. Casey made a second attempt to get past him. He thought he felt something touch him, but it was so light and barely-there that he didn't have the luxury or reacting to it. He just kept going.

"Where are you going to sleep?" Sasha whispered from behind.

"On the couch."

"There's no need, Jerry was just dropping in for a while — "

"I want to."

He passed Jerry on his way to the living room but didn't meet his eyes.

 

Hunched down in the back seat, Casey had his face almost pressed against his small window, counting under his breath as the shapes of so-called people drifted by. One alien...two aliens...three aliens... There was a man who appeared more normal than any regular human being could possibly be... that would make four aliens...five, six... Well, this was kind of pointless since basically everyone he saw should be presumed hostile and dangerous, but it was something to do whilst stuck in the Mustang with two people who were no doubt in contention for the Least-Able-To- Tolerate-Casey-Connor award.

"What are you doing?" Sasha asked quietly from the front seat, putting himself out of the running.

Casey gritted his teeth. "Counting aliens," he replied.

There was a silence, and not the first of the day. Casey really couldn't blame anyone for having nothing to say to him. He hadn't gotten a minute of sleep last night, but it was no excuse for being a deliberate and absolute brat from the moment they all got up this morning. There had been no cinnamon toast today; his caretakers had nagged him into eating oatmeal but otherwise never really talked to him — and all the while that they never spoke, they never stopped watching him, making him perversely eager for the moment when Yves finally said it was over and signed the committal form.

Sasha pulled into a parking place almost directly in front of their destination. As he shut off the engine, he twisted to regard Casey in the back seat. "I have something to say," he announced.

Not turning his head from the window, Casey replied, "Let me guess — you have no choice but to tell her everything."

Again, silence. Despite himself, Casey succumbed to the urge to look; he saw lines etching themselves deep and long around Sasha's mouth. "Frank, would you mind...?" Sasha began.

"Sure thing," Casey's father returned quickly, sounding more than happy to escape the miasma. He popped out of the car pretty fucking fast for a man with broken toes, not that Casey minded. He didn't have any wish to let his father to hear this and he was pretty sure that his father had no interest in knowing much more about him.

The minute the door shut, Sasha rotated himself completely so he could view Casey without having to invite chiropractic intervention. "You're determined to self- destruct today, aren't you?" was his opening line.

Casey retorted, "You're going to tell on me, aren't you?"

"I've told you, Casey," Sasha sighed. "I think you're the one who should do the telling."

"And what if I don't?"

"Casey..." There was a head tilt back, an appeal to god of the vinyl roof. "You're putting me in a position I never wanted to be in."

"I'm not the one who's — "

"You know, I've just about — " Sasha interrupted, and stopped, rubbing his forehead. It was a rarity for Sasha to talk right over people but Casey figured people and him were two separate things. "I hate to sound the way I sound," Sasha resumed in a more level tone. "Talking to you like this...I much prefer being the softie, but you know that."

Casey had nothing to say that wasn't hurtful; he nearly bit down on his tongue in order to keep it all back.

"I spent most of the night after you got back thinking about this," Sasha went on. "I remember you saying how sometimes Zeke has to be the bad guy and I was thinking, it isn't really fair. He'll come back and he'll tell Yves exactly what you don't want her to know, because it has to be done. Not because he gets off on it or anything. He just always has to be the bad guy and he shouldn't have to all the time. This is something that I can do... for both of you." Sasha took a deep breath. "So here goes...either you tell Yves about the hotel...or I will."

There was no restraining himself now; Casey felt like he was going to burn to ash from the inside out. "You're forcing me," he hissed. "Just like Zeke."

"Well, you can choose not to talk."

With a bark of laughter, Casey said, "Oh, perfect!"

"It's up to you, kitten, but whatever you do, Yves is going to hear the truth. I know it doesn't seem very nice and if you never want to speak to me again, so be it. I just can't have you running away in the middle of the night, picking up strange men, hitting people for no good reason...and I can't have you saying things to hurt my feelings when I know how much you love me."

Casey was barely conscious of his mouth working, forming shapes. He made a noise or two but nothing meaningful emerged. "I..." he struggled. "...you...but..."

Sasha waited, watching him with a conspicuous compassion that made Casey want to hit him.

"You can't," Casey finished.

A hand came towards him; Sasha's hand, and when Casey batted angrily at it, it was quickly withdrawn. "I really think that this is the right thing to do," Sasha said. "You seem to be stuck about Roy and what happened between you and him, and Janice. You need a friend to help you — a friend, not a lover. Zeke overcomplicates everything, and he can't be objective." Sasha opened the door on his side. "Are you coming?"

"No!"

"Suit yourself...but I expect to find you in this car when I get back."

Casey watched, paralyzed, as Sasha exited the car and strode purposefully around the front hood to where Casey's father stood. He said a few words to him that Casey couldn't make out, and the two of them began to ascend the stairs together.

"No," Casey whimpered.

The figures of the two men entering the building were indistinct, blurred by heavy tears — but even moreso by plain bewilderment. These two were no longer people that he recognized; the pair of them had changed and stayed the same in entirely unfathomable ways, they had made it so that this moment happened, a moment that he didn't know how to endure and so he had to fall back on something nonsensical like driving his skull into the back of the head rest. Like kicking the back of the seat. Like screaming and laying into the seat with his fists and his knees. "Fuck...! Fucking motherfucker!" His voice split apart. "Mother...fuh..." It had no impact, none of it; nothing was damaged except him, leaving his father and Sasha unaffected.

Barely able to see past rage, Casey was able to observe nevertheless that they had gone inside the building. He punished the seat and his knuckles a bit longer, then scrambled from the car, bolting after them. No way was he going to let Sasha talk about him without him being there because who knew what kind of pitiful picture Sasha would try to paint — in fact, better to not let Sasha talk at all if it could be prevented.

The door to Yves' building had been left unlocked. He bulldozed through it and the anteroom where the coats and boots were stored, into the waiting area.

But there was something amiss. It took him a minute to shake off his focus on the hallway and realize that it was Sasha sitting there, alone. "Wha...where's my dad?" Casey demanded, his chest heaving.

Sasha replied, "Talking to Dr. Yves, of course."

"Why?"

"I don't know, he just all of a sudden wanted to...but you could go in and find out, I imagine."

Casey took a step towards doing just that, determined to treat this as a reprieve.

"Kitten."

"What?"

"Just because your dad jumped the line doesn't change anything. Dr. Yves knows that I'm waiting to speak to her."

Casey spared his so-called friend a bit of a glower, then moved down the hall with the feeling that he was breaking a rule, even though reason said this was his therapy and he had a right to be there. The door was firmly shut; he couldn't hear much beyond a murmur of voices.

He knocked.

Footsteps approached from the inside, followed by the door opening to him. "Casey," Dr. Yves acknowledged. Behind her, he saw his father sitting on the couch.

"I want to be here," Casey blurted.

She simply nodded, moving back to make room for him. Casey went immediately to his own chair, giving his father a look of challenge in passing.

"What was he saying?" Casey demanded, not waiting for Yves to get re- situated.

"He hasn't said much of anything, except hello," Yves replied, settling in her usual place and crossing her legs. "And mentioning that you had a busy night last night."

"It wasn't a ‘busy night'," Casey contradicted.

"Would you like to tell me what happened, then?"

He thought about himself roaming around last night, searching for a willing cock, and instantly gave up. "I...I can't, exactly. Not in front of my dad."

"All right. In that case, Frank, do you think you can talk about what you wanted to talk about?"

Even in profile, Casey's father looked more nervous than Casey had ever known him to be. "This is a lot harder than I...I was expecting," his father said. "But I guess it's something he needs to hear too."

"All right," Yves said, very neutral. "Go ahead, Frank."

It got quiet, for a moment.

"I'm not used to talking to...talking about feelings and stuff."

"Just do the best you can."

Casey's father coughed, taking his time clearing imaginary phlegm from his lungs. "Okay," he wheezed. "Well, it's about...aliens."

Casey's stomach quivered.

"I know he told you about them," his father continued, "and I guess I would rather he didn't...but he has and there's not much to be done about it. I told him my opinion about this a while back...but he always makes his own mind up about things."

"I see," Dr. Yves said.

Casey didn't so much as breathe. Whatever his father was about to do to him, he had an inkling that it would kill him —

"I remember the aliens," his father said.

It wasn't dying and it wasn't panic...but something utterly new. Something he'd never felt before when he'd thought that he'd known every kind of response to a shocking event that it was possible for a human to have. He had been naive, it seemed. This was like being punched in the gut, elbowed in the face and run into the flagpole, all at once. Everything stopped, so he was helpless to affect this moment... even to have a feeling about it. He could only watch and listen. Never felt this before, his brain sang, a new thing never felt it, newnewnew, don't know what to do...

"I remember," his father continued, "but I don't like to remember, I don't like to think about it. A lot of it is...confusing."

Movement, someone was moving...oh, but that was him, cramming his fingers in his mouth and chewing on them.

Dr. Yves said nothing for a considerable pause. "Go on," she urged at last.

"It was Casey's...the football coach. He asked to talk to me and then he...did something to me. Something went into me...and then I did things and thought things...I thought it was me at the time but I realized after that it wasn't me. And I wasn't the only one. It was the whole town." Suddenly, it seemed that Casey's dad was speaking to him, not Yves. "I never wanted to talk about this, but it has to be done. My son isn't crazy."

"I promise you, Frank," Yves said. "I most certainly do not think Casey's crazy. We don't deal in those kind of terms in this profession."

"But you see...you've got to understand these aliens actually, literally happened. He's not making that up...you see?"

"I hear you, Frank."

"But do you believe it?"

There was a stab of pain. Casey noted that he'd bitten a fingernail past the quick. Dropping his hands somewhere near his knees, he looked up and saw how Dr. Yves was making a brand new kind of face, another mask that he couldn't categorize. "I really don't know what to think," she said.

"I'm going to get my wife to call you. She'll confirm it too. And I'll get other people...see, the fact is, no one wants to talk about it. It was just too weird...and scary. But that doesn't mean it didn't happen."

"Casey?" Dr. Yves prompted suddenly. "Do you want to say something?"

By then, it was fairly conclusive that Casey was unable to contribute anything. His throat had closed entirely. He couldn't muster a sound, let alone a word.

"My son's had a hard time," Frank Connor said, "and I...I'm not going to let you lock him up just because of that. He may not look it, but he's tough. He can beat this, he doesn't need any hospital." These last words were spoken like a challenge to Yves. "Okay, that's it." He stood up, hunching at the same time so he looked both taller and smaller than he usually did. "I'm going to go."

"Frank, wait," Yves said. "You should stay."

"No." Casey's father shook his head. "I feel uncomfortable enough already. I need to go...I just wanted to tell you that."

"If you can join us for a session before you have to go back home..."

"I'll think about it."

It wasn't going to happen and Casey knew that, but it was okay with him. These few minutes were just about all either of them could take. At least, he was sure he couldn't take any more.

"Thank you, Frank."

"Okay."

With a nervous duck of his head, Frank Connor slipped out of the room.

"Well, that was a surprise," Dr. Yves remarked.

And Casey burst out laughing. It surged up and exploded out of him, became like a seizure, unstoppable. It was a full-body heave and he couldn't get air...and when he suddenly sensed a body near him, he cringed back, the laughter losing itself to hysteria. Dr. Yves insisted on touching his shoulder anyway.

"Don't," he burst. "Don't do that!"

"Okay." Dr. Yves took a step away from him and stood, regarding him from what he considered a safef distance. "Are you all right, do you...do you want to take a minute?"

He nodded, tittering.

"Take your time, Casey."

The problem was, the world had just turned inside out; Casey didn't think that any amount of time was going to get him back on secure ground. He bent over, resting his head in his hands and tried to just exist for a minute, not think about this amazing, universe-imploding, gut-twisting new reality where his father actually admitted —

Oh, shit, and if his father knew, if his father remembered, then other people did too. It shouldn't be such a shock to know that he had been right, that he'd been right all along...but it was. It really had happened. He wasn't nuts, and he, Casey Connor, had taken on aliens from outer space. He'd looked a huge, hostile extra- terrestrial right in the eye as he killed her. He'd seen the light fade from her eyes, her skin disintegrating and dessicating...

"...okay? Kitten?"

Just as it seemed he always did, Sasha had appeared. He had gone down on one knee beside his chair and taken Casey's hand, and this touch felt good. The hand was warm and smooth, alive.

"What was your dad up to just now?" Sasha wanted to know, reaching for Casey's other hand and holding it.

For a moment there was no sound aside from that of Casey gasping; then, he was falling to a fresh spate of frantic giggles.

Sasha's grip was suddenly a clutch. "Did he fuck up something because if he did I'll — "

"No," Casey interrupted. He was able to breathe at last, if he was careful. "He helped...I think." He peered up at Yves.

She nodded once, her eyes distant.

Releasing Casey, Sasha straightened to his full and rather impressive height, erupting all the way. "Well, what the fuck — excuse me, doctor — what the hell?"

Casey muttered, "He said — he said he — remembered the aliens."

"Really?" Sasha whispered, his eyes rounding as he looked down.

"He said he'd get other people to admit it, too. He said...he said I was right."

"Oh...but that's wonderful, kitten."

Wonderful. A word that Casey wasn't accustomed to associating with his father or anything to do with aliens but it really and truly was, with no way to put a negative spin on it. If there had been, Casey knew he would already have thought of it. No, it was the first thing in recent memory that was nothing but good — and a gift from his father, no less. It didn't matter now if Yves still didn't accept it and sent him off to the padded room because he knew that his father cared about him.

Sasha had angled himself to face Yves. "Now will you believe him?" he asked her.

"I do need to reconsider my assessment."

"Dr. Yves...you don't know how difficult that was for Frank. He's a man with almost no imagination. He would never make something like that up and he certainly wouldn't tell a story like that unless it was true."

"I appreciate that, Sasha." Dr. Yves paused, examining Casey. He examined her back and, as usual, found no evidence of what she was thinking. "Casey, I know you've just had a shock, but do you think you can continue?"

Some of the joy in Casey's chest was squelched. His father had just done an amazing thing for him, and he couldn't entirely lose that spark of happiness at the thought of it, in fact he could have sat there for hours replaying the moment when his father said those words — but there was still the problem of himself and Zeke and everything else, and Sasha had gotten himself into the room without the slightest resistance from Casey, so Casey was fucked to his eyeballs here.

"I...guess so," he faltered.

"And would you like Sasha to leave or to stay?"

Sasha jumped in before Casey could reply. "Dr. Yves, could I have a few minutes with Casey, please?"

Yves shrugged. "I suppose, if you think it will help us in our discussion."

"I think it will, yeah."

"All right, then. Just a few minutes, though."

Yves stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Sitting down in the chair next to Casey's, Sasha said without introduction or preamble, "Are you going to tell her or am I?"

Casey's mind was pretty much blank at that moment. He hung onto his chair and kept quiet, trying to reboot.

"Look at what your father just did, kitten. Do you think that was easy for him?"

"It wasn't," Casey admitted, but he didn't return Sasha's gaze.

"And it doesn't inspire you at all?"

"Sasha," Casey pleaded. That wasn't fair, not in the least. There were things that needed to be said and things that didn't — shit, what was it that Thomas had said that time? Thomas had told it to him and he had known it was true but at the time it had to do with Zeke refusing to talk about aliens. This situation was entirely different, though, and it was maddening the way that Sasha pulled out a comparison to his father at a time when he couldn't get his brain to function sufficiently, to organize the argument that he knew was there. It wasn't at all just.

Sasha pressed on, relentless. "Kitten...why did you run into this building before?"

"To stop you."

"Are you sure it wasn't something else?"

Casey just shook his head.

"The other night I said you can do anything, kitten, and I meant it."

"I can't..."

"Yes, you can. You can — you take the lead and I'll help — "

Words failed, and Casey did the only thing he could think of to let Sasha know how dysfunctional he was feeling. He pounded on the arm of his chair with a fist.

"Say again?"

"If you leave..." Casey whispered. "I promise I'll tell her. I'd just rather do it...without anyone here."

At this, Sasha actually grinned. "That's very clever, kitten. But I'm afraid I can't bite."

"I'm pretty sure I get to choose who comes to my therapy!" Casey blurted.

"I don't have to tell her in your presence, Casey. I can just phone her up, or make my own appointment."

Casey propelled himself from his seat, heading for the window where he stood with his back to everything and everyone else. Down below there were people- aliens walking about freely, no one trying to trap them... but here he was trapped again, trapped as always, fucking trapped and helpless, unable to say no. He heard Sasha go to the door and say, "We need you, Dr. Yves," and he wondered if he put his hand through this window if that would wipe that smug tone from Sasha's face and voice.

"Would you like to sit down, Casey?" Dr. Yves said from behind him.

"No."

"Why not?"

Suddenly Casey had too many responses to choose from, none of them nice. In the end he went with something merely infantile. "I want him to leave and he won't."

"I see."

"And I want Casey to tell you something," Sasha said.

"I said I would!" Casey cried, whirling to face his tormentor.

"As long as I left the room," Sasha returned calmly.

"That's right, I don't want you here!"

"The problem with that, Casey, is that I'm afraid you'll leave out something important."

"How would you know what's important, you don't even know what happened!"

Sasha folded his arms and nodded like he'd just scored a point. "That's true. I'd like to hear what happened if you'll tell me...right here and right now, Casey."

"Dr. Yves," Casey begged. "I don't have to have him here, do I?"

"No," she answered. Then she performed a regretful shrug, a dismissal of his expressed wishes, adding, "But I do think it would be better if he stayed and we had this out."

Stomping his foot was unsatisfying and he no longer had the arm of the chair to assault, so he upgraded to pounding himself. "You're all...a...a bunch of liars!" he accused, driving his right fist into his own upper thigh. And again, and again, until the sensation gave him back the ability to form a sentence. "You tell me shit, you tell me I should be honest about things and when I tell you the truth you don't care, you keep forcing me to talk about stuff that doesn't matter!" Vaguely, he knew that he was making one hell of a pitiful scene, and he couldn't help it.

"I'm not against you, Casey," Dr. Yves said. "I'm on your side."

With control of nothing, Casey began the final slide towards disintegration. "I tell you things," he moaned, this time slamming his knee and elbow against the wall. It accomplished little in the way of self-destruction but it did make for a rather satisfying, dull pain. "I've tried, I've been trying..."

"I know, Casey."

Sasha was holding out a hand. "Casey...please stop that. Please?"

"Why?" Casey demanded, and did it again, just to make the point.

"Because I don't like it."

Casey let his hands fall to his side for a second, then brought them up again, wrapping his arms around himself and holding onto his sweater with two fists.

"Can I say something?" Sasha begged. With a violent head shake, Casey refused but Sasha went ahead, patently ignoring him. "I know how hard you've tried, Casey, I think better than anyone. And something's still missing. Look at yourself. You accomplish more and more all the time and somehow you're more of a mess than ever. Look at what you did last night — "

"Zeke was with a woman! I phoned him and a woman answered and you know everything was over! And I'm sure she's going to lock me up soon." Casey stabbed a finger at his shrink. "So I lost it a bit. It doesn't fucking matter!"

"But why do you keep losing it?" Sasha pressed.

"Because I'm scared, okay?"

"I know you're scared...so scared, you have nothing to lose so you lash out...you hit Winona..."

Of course Sasha wasn't saying anything that the shrink didn't already know, but to repeat it here, to make those connections when Casey had made it so abundantly clear how much he didn't want it — Casey could only gape at his betrayer for some seconds before he turned to Yves. "You are going to lock me up, aren't you? I can't stand being afraid anymore, just...tell me."

"We don't ‘lock people up', Casey," she answered. "This isn't a movie."

"You know what I mean! Are you going to put me in the hospital?"

"I honestly don't know. What happened last night, why don't you tell me about that?"

He rocked from side to side and hugged himself closer, tighter. "I — I went out on the town for a few hours."

"And did what?"

"Nothing. That's the truth. I j-just walked around. And I freaked out a bit in a coffee shop but I didn't attack anyone."

"Did you want to?"

"I wanted out."

"But you didn't feel an urge to lash out physically?"

"I...thought about it," he whispered. "But mostly I was just scared."

"Oh, Casey," Sasha sighed. He had gotten all the way to the window, somehow without Casey really noticing. He was just inches away from touching Casey now, and he would, that was the way that he operated and it could no more be stopped than this conversation could. "Kitten, remember after Zeke's party, how terrible you felt? You wanted to change and you worked at it and now here you are. You told me and Zeke about what happened in the hotel because you know, just like Zeke and I know, that it's the reason why you were so scared...why you hurt Winona. You didn't want that to happen again. You wanted to change."

The mind capitulated, leaving Casey without tools for fighting, access neither to reason nor instinct, imprisoned in an event that was going to happen to him regardless of what he tried. He couldn't get away from it and he didn't know that he'd live through it.

From a distance, Yves said, "So what do you think, Casey?"

Thinking was a bit too much to ask. Casey just shook his head helplessly.

"Casey, sometimes a person can be so hurt by someone or something that they find it hard to believe the trauma is over. They can walk around for years feeling constantly under threat, and that's understandable. Our bodies have these wonderful mechanisms to help us deal with danger but sometimes, like after a trauma, they can get out of whack and if we don't recalibrate them they keep signalling that you're in danger. Do you want that to be you, Casey? Do you want to always suspect everyone of being out to get you?"

"So," he muttered. "I tell the truth...instant cure?"

"Of course not. But no cure without the truth, Casey."

"What about being forced to tell the truth...what about that?"

"I'd rather not let that happen, Casey, and I don't think we have to. I think you want to tell me. You want to heal. I can see it. You're ready."

He closed his eyes, gently shifting back and forth from one foot to the other. It was a soothing motion. "I just don't want... I don't want you to get the wrong idea."

"Which is what?"

Time had slowed down and he could feel every syllable, every letter slowly taking shape under lips and tongue, as though he had the power to change his mind at any moment...and yet he had no power at all. "That... it was their fault."

"Casey!" Sasha protested. "You aren't going to let them off the hook."

Dr. Yves intervened, "Sasha, please, let Casey tell us this. What do you mean, it wasn't their fault, Casey?"

"I went along with it." There was no office, no doctor, no friend. There were just the words. "I didn't say no."

"When you say ‘it'...?"

"Sex."

"And ‘they' were...?"

"Roy and...his wife."

"Janice," Sasha filled in.

"I see. So this happened when?"

"August...right before I went in the hospital."

"When you say right before..."

"After they left, I was...alone...and Zeke eventually found me. He took me to the emergency room."

Sasha's voice intruded. "Kitten, will you come and sit down now?"

Casey blinked at Sasha, jarred out of his trance. Nearby, he noticed, Yves seemed to be holding herself in a state of mime-like stillness.

"Please?"

With reluctance, Casey slowly negotiated the furniture and sat down, followed by Sasha. Just in case Sasha tried to reach for his hands, Casey sat on them. If anyone touched him right now, this would be over, and it wouldn't be a pretty ending.

Breaking her own stillness, Dr. Yves reached for her paper and pen. "You say you went along with this... could I call it a threesome?" That word sounded surreal, coming from Yves' mouth.

"Yes."

"Can you describe how it went?"

"How...it went...?"

She glanced over at Sasha. "This is difficult to talk about, I know, Casey, but it would be helpful if I had a bit more information."

"Like...who did what to whom?"

Yves smiled a bit sadly. "More or less."

Casey was highly conscious of Sasha, sitting at his right with a fist pressed against his mouth and fervent eyes fixed on him. "Well...it's kind of...confusing. I was sick."

"Just tell me what you remember."

Silence. He remembered silence, and being touched inside and out, multiple limbs and flesh that was soft and hard and wet and wanting him... then not wanting him at all but for a short time it had been beautiful. "I...I had sex...just with Roy first," he stumbled, turning over moments in his brain to find the things that he could talk about. "Then she got in with us and..." He trailed away, unable to put any of it into words. Sasha cleared his throat loudly, and Casey suddenly felt very bad for him having to be here.

"I want to ask you a very personal question, Casey," Yves said. "Is that okay?"

He was almost amused at being asked for his permission. "Whatever."

"Were you penetrated during this part of the encounter?"

Now he did have to laugh. "Penetrated? Yeah."

"Was it one or both of them?"

He sensed two minds, two full sets of listening-and-understanding apparatus, waiting with avid interest for him to give up his most cherished truth, that it was Her...tentacles and all, and he wanted her, he needed to belong just for once...to be forgiven and for one tiny instant, he was, he belonged, he was with her, of her, weightless and serene in the warm, complete landless abyss, for one moment he knew what was possible and that he would never betray her. He took a deep, long breath, sucking parched, scalded air into his lungs. "I don't...know."

"How do you mean, you don't know?"

"I just felt hands and something inside me. I don't know what — who it was."

"How is that possible?"

Raising his head, he fastened a look on her. "I blanked out before it was over. Like I said...I was sick. And I was...kind of sore."

"From having sex with Roy before that?"

"Yes."

"Okay, so you blanked out, and then...?"

"I kind of...came back...and they were arguing."

"About what?"

"She said she didn't..." want me "...want to do it. Roy got mad and left, and then...I guess she left. It's really hard to remember that part."

There was a pause while Dr. Yves caught up with writing her notes.

"So..." she said at length, with the pure distraction of a scientist who was hard at work on solving a puzzle. "At the end of this episode would you say you were in physical and emotional distress?"

"Yes."

"And you were alone until Zeke found you?"

"Yes."

"And did you consent to everything that happened, Casey?"

Casey blinked, caught off guard by the abruptness of the last. "I didn't want Roy to leave. Zeke had already left — I couldn't be alone."

"That's not the question, Casey. The question was, did you want to do it?"

"It didn't...it wasn't...I mean, it didn't feel bad. It hurt a bit but it felt good too. It's like that sometimes." It had just hurt when it stopped, when they left...the same way that it always hurt to become single, to be abandoned. He had truly thought it didn't have to be that way anymore, only to come back...and find out that instead it was the only way it ever would be.

"You know, Casey, just because it felt good doesn't mean you wanted it."

Casey dashed quickly at the moisture he felt on his face and clutched his hands together. "I knew you would do this."

"Do what?"

"Make it seem like...I didn't know what I wanted."

"Oh, I think you knew exactly what you wanted, Casey."

"I wasn't...I let him do it, I decided. And maybe it affected me in a way but that's...that's because... "

"Because...?"

"Because I was sick. I burned my arm, I was out of it. He didn't do that to me. And I went there looking for him. I needed him."

"Casey, can I just ask you this? What would have happened if you had said no to Roy?"

"He would have stopped it."

"Are you sure — "

"Yes."

" — because just because you didn't say no doesn't mean you consented."

"He would have stopped, I know he would!"

"And yet since then you've developed this severe anxiety about people, about being touched, and you're finding it harder and harder to control your anger and fear."

"But it — it doesn't mean what you think. I wanted to — I didn't tell him no."

"Maybe," Dr. Yves suggested in low, measured tones, "you didn't say no so you wouldn't have to find out what Roy would do? And maybe since you didn't say no, that must mean that you're a slut who wants everything he gets?"

"No," Casey refused, aware that he was nearly finished. He had nothing left, no will, no cause to fall back on. Even bad temper was failing him and he was whispering, barely finding the strength for the words, "That's not...how it was."

"How was it, then?"

Sasha broke in, "Casey, let me say something...please."

It was about to become an ambush, Casey realized. Lacking the endurance to make more than a token resistance, he was reduced to just shaking his head.

"I've been bursting with this stuff for over a year, kitten. I can help, please let me."

As ever, silence was consent, and Sasha leapt into the breach.

"Dr. Yves...I think it's important that you know about Roy Windle. I don't know how much Casey's told you about him, but he's...slippery. He's a slippery, sneaky, sick person. He has this way of doing things to you so you're not sure if he did something bad or not and I think that's part of the problem here. The thing with Janice was just the capper to two years of bad shit."

"Please don't..." Casey protested half-heartedly.

"But she needs to know this, kitten. It's not like it was your fault, you were on your own and lonely, it was only natural you'd latch onto him like that — but the fact is he's a solid, grade 'A' asshole and you're too good at adapting to other people's bullshit. Whatever you've told Yves about Roy, it was probably ten times worse and you don't even realize it."

"Sasha," Dr. Yves said.

"I know he's an asshole," Casey whispered. Raising his voice, he said, "But that doesn't mean I can make everything his fault."

"But I keep hearing you trying to downplay how rotten he is. All this stuff you're saying about how it hurt but it wasn't his fault, and it was still good in a way...that's bullshit, Casey. I've seen you with Dr. Chakri and Winona...how you're afraid of them touching you. You react to women sometimes like they're evil incarnate and you know what? I think that you're probably just as afraid of men but you can't allow yourself to feel that because you're so afraid of being alone. And then you make excuses for Roy when he's the prick who set up that whole, perverted scene — !"

"Sasha," Dr. Yves said again. "I think that's enough."

Something hot rolled down Casey's cheek. He lifted his hand to wipe it away and gave up halfway, letting his hand fall limp against his thigh and the tears fall unchecked.

"I'm sorry," Sasha said. "When it comes to Roy, I get a little crazy. Probably because...well, I used to be his friend. It took me a long time to figure out what he was."

"That's not your fault either, Sasha," Yves told him.

"But I should have seen..."

"You can't blame yourself for whatever Roy might have done."

Sasha's eyes had gone glassy. "No," he said, sounding like a man just barely in control of tears. "But I can blame myself for not stepping in sooner."

"How did you step in?"

"I told Roy to break it off with Casey. Roy was getting ready to be married and Casey was in bad shape. I fought with Roy...pestered him until he saw things my way...or so I thought at the time. It didn't stop him from sneaking off to Herrington twice a week to see Casey."

"That's not your fault either, Sasha."

"It may not be my fault, but it is my responsibility."

"How do you figure that?"

"Because Casey is my friend and I take care of my friends. I mean...I should have."

It was news to Casey that Sasha was, after all this time, feeling this much guilt about the Roy situation. It jolted him from his malaise, made him raise his head and look. He found that Sasha was already gazing back, his eyes glistening and seeking something, pleading for absolution from Casey Connor, of all people. Casey didn't have the resources to offer much — not for lack of desire but because he was simply incapable of it at that moment. The best he could do was to give Sasha a bit of a nod and hope that his eyes conveyed what Sasha needed. It must have conveyed something, for Sasha's spine stiffened a little. His demeanour changed, brightened.

Dr. Yves was flipping the pages in her notebook, commenting as she did so, "It's understandable that you would want to avoid blaming Roy, Casey. No one wants to feel like a victim...but you need to balance that against the risk of denial. You know what Stuart Smalley says about denial..."

Casey jerked a look at her. "...it ain't just a river in Egypt," he finished, astonished.

She lifted her head from her notes and graced him with a tiny smile. "Exactly. Now as I was saying...things happen that are real traumas, that change us permanently. Just from what you've shared today, I think that your experiences with Roy and — Janice — may fall under that heading. My question to you is, can you admit that these experiences are affecting you in negative ways?"

He gnawed his lip. He knew what they wanted to hear — what they probably should hear. "Yes," he whispered.

She smiled, probably understanding him all too well. "Are you willing to work on those things with me?"

He shrugged.

Eyes narrowing slightly, Yves folded her hands on her lap and said, "You've had some pretty difficult experiences and there's a lot to work on."

"I guess."

"You know, Casey."

He breathed. In. Out.

In.

Out.

In —

"I know," he admitted, and exhaled.

But he didn't add the Something Else that he knew: That the worst experience of his life was likely the most profound, and it was up to him to protect it. There was something about it that no one would know but him — not Zeke, not Sasha, not even Yves. It was his, and it would always be his. No one could take it from him.

"And it would appear," Dr. Yves sighed," that one of those difficult experiences involved creatures from another planet."

Notwithstanding his father's efforts earlier, he was stunned. He goggled at her. "You...really believe me?"

"I don't think not believing is an option anymore, certainly as far as your therapy is concerned. I don't quite know what to make of it. The next time you're here, I'd like to hear the whole alien story again...in detail."

"Okay," he said in bemusement. "So...no hospital, then?"

She sighed and said tolerantly, "No hospital...as long as you keep coming to see me five days a week, that is."

He said the thing that felt most appropriate: "Thank you."

"Casey...don't you realize how much you've accomplished in just the past two days? You've demonstrated an ability to step back somewhat from your feelings and analyze them. You've admitted to being in pain, which means you've admitted it to yourself. And do you realize that the whole time you've been here you've shown me no sign of your usual anxiety, even though we've touched on some very difficult topics?"

"I'm too miserable to be anxious right now."

"Oh, and I'm not declaring you cured either. Nothing is that easy. However, I do see some improvement, whether it's due to being miserable, as you say, or the Klonopin, or both." Dr. Yves closed her notebook and said, "Now I think we've all earned a pleasant New Year's Eve and a day off. I'll see you back here on Tuesday morning, yes?"

"Yes," he said.

"And tell me again...when does Zeke get back from L.A.?"

"On Wednesday," Sasha replied, glancing at Casey.

"I want to have some more sessions just with you and him, Casey. I'd be really interested to hear the alien story from Zeke's perspective too."

She didn't want much, from a guy who had never told the story out loud to Casey's knowledge, who was probably still too pissed off to speak to him, and who might never speak to him again. "Um..." Casey hedged. "I don't know."

"We'll ask," Sasha said firmly.

"That's all we can do," Yves replied. "It's up to him, of course." As Casey extracted himself from his chair she added, "Just one more thing, Casey."

"Yeah?"

"Don't forget our agreement. No harm."

"No harm," Casey agreed. He saw Sasha frown and searched for a distraction. "Hey, um...what time is it?"

"Just after twelve," Yves said.

"Twelve?" Sasha echoed. "Oh, shit — we've got to get going, kitten. I have an early start this afternoon."

"Let me show you out," Yves offered.

She escorted them the short distance to the reception area, where Casey had a bit of a jolt to see that his father wasn't there. Sasha also looked distressed. "Your father wouldn't have taken the car..." he said, and compressed his lips.

"I don't know," Casey replied.

"Well, we'd better find out," Sasha fretted. "Gotta go, Dr. Yves."

Yves nodded. "Have a good night, boys. And Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year to you too," Sasha replied, distractedly motioning Casey towards the door.

"Thank you, Dr. Yves," Casey added on his way out.

"Come on, kitten, I'm on a schedule." Sasha opened the front door of the building for Casey, and sighed with relief to find that the car was still sitting there on the curb; Casey could see his father's profile outlined clearly on the passenger's side.

Unexpectedly, Sasha clapped two hands on Casey's shoulders from behind, making him yelp.

"Shit, I'm sorry!" Sasha exclaimed.

"Just — you just startled me," Casey chattered.

"I was going to say, do I have to worry about you tonight?"

Casey peered backwards over his shoulder and up at his friend. "No."

"You won't sneak out or otherwise scare the crap out of me?"

"Sasha...I'm wiped. Seriously..." Casey heard his voice tremble. "I don't want to go anywhere."

"You promise?"

Casey nodded, trying not to look as feeble as he was. "I promise."

"All right."

His father was staring straight out the windshield, oblivious to their approach, and he jumped slightly when Sasha knocked on the window. Without a word he got out of the car and pushed the seat up so Casey could collapse in the back.

They drove away from Dr. Yves' office in a not-entirely-comfortable silence, each of them caught up in their own thoughts. For his own part, Casey sat with his eyes closed, waiting for the universe to stop moving around him. He didn't have the strength for anything more than that, and certainly not to make an attempt to process everything that had been said in the past couple of hours. He feared he would have to be helped out of the car — but when they arrived it turned out he still had some juice left. He kept his feet under him, making it up the stairs and inside on his own steam. Numbed to a desire to do anything more, he shed his winter clothes and drifted into the dining area.

"There's messages here..." Sasha remarked, standing over the answering machine.

It was astounding to Casey that he still had sufficient energy to get anxious...but when Sasha pressed play, his pulse picked up. As it turned out there was a message from Jerry, one from Stokely, and nothing from anyone else. Sasha claimed the phone and went into his bedroom, leaving Casey and his father together. Casey made the mistake of looking up and saw his father trying to sneak a glance at him; they both looked away quickly. His father was obviously worn and weary, and for his own part, Casey just wanted to find a place to hide. His brain was stumbling and his body absolutely depleted. Shuffling his feet, he hoped that he conveyed the image of a person deep in personal reflection.

A few minutes later, Sasha came scurrying out of his bedroom. "I'm going to jump in the shower so don't run the water, okay?"

"Okay," Casey said. "Um...can I have the phone?"

"Sure," Sasha replied, visibly restraining himself from asking "what for".

"I'm going to call Stokely back," Casey supplied, not bothering to get annoyed. His priority, for now, was to fill some of the awkward silence through conversation with someone who wouldn't make excessive demands on him.

"Ah." Sasha tossed the handset to him and headed off down the hall while Casey took himself to the living room, folding into the arm chair. He held his eyes closed for a long count of thirty, breathing evenly and carefully, then called up Stokely.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Stokes...it's Casey."

"Oh, hi, Case! How was the rest of your holiday?"

"Um...to tell the truth, it blew."

"Oh...sorry."

"It's okay."

"I was kind of surprised when Sasha told me you were home already."

"When did he do that?"

"Yesterday. I had to work a few hours and he dropped in to say hello. And Zeke's in Los Angeles, I guess?"

"Yeah..." Casey cleared his throat, eager to avoid that topic. "Um...you called us?"

"I was just wondering what you were doing tonight."

"Don't have any plans."

"Neither do I...and neither does Stan. I thought we could hang out together. Not go out or anything," she amended quickly. "Just hang and watch all those count- down shows they have...top videos and worst dressed and all that. I love that stuff."

Casey entertained it for a few seconds before recognizing that he just couldn't. "Stokes...I'm sorry but I'm wrecked. I'm not up for anything tonight."

"It's okay, Case. I hope...you're not going to be alone, are you?"

"My dad's here."

"Oh...good."

"Yeah..." Casey glanced up, seeking signs of his father's presence. Frank Connor was nowhere in view, but that didn't mean he couldn't hear Casey's half of the conversation. Abandoning caution, Casey said, "But it's probably not his idea of an exciting New Year's Eve."

"Hey, Charly is having some sort of party or open house tomorrow. I think she does it every year with all her fellow sports fanatics. They just O.D. on football and chips and beer...maybe your dad would like to go?"

"Maybe..."

"I could ask Charly about it."

"Okay, sure."

"Okay...well, Happy New Year's, Case."

"Same to you."

"I'll see you soon...and I'll let you know about the party tomorrow."

"Okay...bye."

"Bye."

As he hung up, Casey noticed that his father was hovering somewhere on the cusp between dining area and living room. "You're not going anywhere, are you?" his father asked him.

"No," Casey said, a little taken aback by the rasp of fatigue in his own voice. "I think... I'm going to lie down for a bit."

His father nodded. "That sounds like a good idea."

Acting on both instinct and impulse, Casey chose the door to Sasha's room over his own, and curled up there on the bed. Involuntarily his mind meandered to Los Angeles, to Zeke...wondering if Zeke might answer the phone right now...but today was the day of the wedding and he was probably far too busy to deal with Casey's bullshit. Zeke would be wearing a tux, smiling for the camera, dancing with whoever and Whoever would be dancing with him thinking he was an unattached hot male...

"Oh!" Sasha exclaimed, entering the room and spotting him. "Taking a time out, are we?"

"Yeah." Suddenly, Casey's brain unleashed a high-speed replay of everything he had said and done to Sasha in the past twenty-four hours, and he was shocked that Sasha was even speaking to him. "Is it...is it okay?"

"Of course, kitten."

There was, for a while, only the comforting sounds of Sasha rummaging in closets and drawers. "What are you...er...up to tonight?" Sasha asked, sounding just about as awkward as Sasha ever did. "I mean...you and your dad?"

"Nothing much, I guess."

"Are you going to try to call Zeke, maybe?"

"Zeke doesn't want to talk to me."

"What?" Sasha sounded startled.

"He left me, Sasha."

"Are we back to that?" Sasha asked patiently, abandoning his efforts at getting dressed. "Casey, he did say he was coming home."

"No, I mean...he's coming back...but it's over between him and me."

Sasha came to sit on the bed near Casey, reaching over to stroke his hair. "Maybe you need to review that list of yours...you know the one?"

"But Sasha... I don't believe in that list."

"Somehow I think that if Dr. Yves can believe in aliens, you can believe that Zeke's not leaving you."

Casey put a hand over his eyes, trying to block out the light. In the absence of a real sensory vacuum, it would have to do.

"You're so stubborn, you." Sasha sighed, continuing to caress Casey's hair. "But I can understand the reasons."

"Sasha."

"Yes, kitten."

"Are you...still mad at me?"

"I was never mad at you, kitten. I think the more relevant question is, are you still mad at me?"

Casey hesitated. Then he said, his heart racing a little, "I was really pissed off."

"Yeah, I kind of guessed that."

"I'm not anymore, though."

"Good."

"As long as we don't talk about it anymore."

"Hmm..."

"Yves knows enough now and she'll make me talk about it...I don't want you or Zeke to bring it up again."

There was a pause.

"We'll see," Sasha granted.

Casey moved his hand and looked directly into his friend's eyes. "It's private...it's the most private thing, you know?"

"I do understand why you don't want to talk about it, Casey. I hated having to do what I did today, but I can't apologize for it."

"You sound like Zeke now."

"Well...maybe I need to borrow a page from his book more often."

A stray memory surfaced then, something of Casey's terrible conversations with Zeke during the past week. Something that he had to take care of now. "Sasha," he grunted, pulling himself upright.

"What?" Sasha asked, with a slightly alarmed tinge to his expression.

"Need to tell you something just in case..."

"Just in case of what?"

"Nothing, I guess."

Sasha frowned. "Well...what is it?"

"I — I don't like carbonara."

For a time, there was a complete absence of motion or sound.

"Huh?" Sasha said, brow furrowed.

"I don't..."

"You don't like carbonara."

"Um...not really."

"But it's your favourite food."

Casey shook his head. "It's not my favourite."

"I see..." Sasha went quiet again and Casey began to quake with the fear that this was not being taken well at all. After a terrible wait, Sasha said, "Well, a lot of good eggs got wasted then."

"I know."

"Also, it's a shame when bacon goes unappreciated."

"Sorry."

"And you know how I feel about pasta."

"I like pasta," Casey said quickly.

"Well, thank god for that." Sasha chuckled, then added solemnly, "I think we can all live with the truth, Casey." He resumed the process of getting dressed and coiffed, smiling at Casey once before leaving him to recover from the morning's upheavals.

 

Something more could still happen, even in a day full of impossible Somethings. When he closed his eyes, the world was still pretty lousy, and when he woke up...well, it wasn't exactly like someone stuck him with a needle and he felt pretty much as he ever did except...it was the most bizarre thing.

He felt better.

Not great. There was no narcotic or otherwise miraculous agent that could make that happen — but he wasn't shaking, and for the first time in days he felt an interest in something other than the next time it would be safe to close his eyes and try to forget. He was still rather exhausted and he knew that he would need to crash again in a few hours but his mind was seeking consciousness, wondering what time it was, what was on TV and what his father was watching. He wondered what there was to eat. He wondered what Zeke was doing and if he was doing it with the woman from the phone —

But he mustn't think too much on the latter subject or he would be raving again before he knew it. He could only try to do something to distract himself. Okay, his teeth were scummy, for a start. He could pay a visit to the bathroom. Body creaking and stiff from the long nap, he rolled upright and headed in that direction.

While he performed a quick brush job, he spent some time with the mirror. He didn't look as terrible as he imagined he must have after the session with Yves this morning. His eyes were only a little red, merely suggesting a person still needing to catch up on his sleep, as opposed to a person who had just gone through emotional armageddon.

"Hey," his dad said, tearing his eyes from the TV screen when Casey made his appearance in the living room. "You're finally awake."

"Yeah...I was really tired."

"You do look a lot better." His dad lowered the volume. "Sasha had to go. Work and all that. And Jerry said hi."

"Uh-huh."

"What do you want for supper? "Are you hungry?"

"Actually..." Casey pondered the question and was surprised at the answer. "Yeah."

"I thought we could order Chinese food like your mom and I usually do."

For the first time Casey took note of the fact that his father had been separated from his mother on New Year's Eve, perhaps for the first time since they had been married. Upon reflection, it seemed like the two of them more or less shared a single, united social life. "Dad...I'm sorry you couldn't be with Mom."

"What?" His father blinked, and then shrugged. "Oh, that's... we've spent so many New Year's together, it's fine. You know we don't usually do anything much except play cards with the Johnsons."

There was certainly a bitter flavour to the memory of New Year's Eve last year. There he was, huddled in Roy's room while a party carried on elsewhere in the apartment and he bided there in terror that someone would come in. At the time, the only defense he'd had was the door and then Sasha had just broken that down and come right on in. Sasha had talked and talked but Casey couldn't recall much of what he'd said except that he kept begging him to leave.

"It's okay," his father noted when it had been silent for a bit too long. "You can say it."

"Hmm?"

"Your parents are boring old farts."

"No." Casey shook his head. "I was just thinking."

"About...?"

"About last year."

The silence stretched right to its limit.

Casey's father said suddenly, "I hope it helped...the things I told her."

"They did." Casey's throat was tightening as he took a step towards his father. "I think she's accepted it."

"That's good."

"Dad..." Casey said softly.

His father started to squirm a bit, like he wanted to get up and run. He gripped the arms of his chair, hard. "I'm sorry..." he rasped. "Sorry I never stood up for you."

Casey took it upon himself to close the distance between them, halting just before the chair, hovering in front of his father. He wanted to touch the older man but couldn't figure out a way to do it that didn't feel absurd so he stood with eyes lowered and hands hanging at his sides. "Thank you," he mumbled.

His father's hand fumbled up and squeezed his, then dropped away just as quickly. "So... where do you like to order from?"

Casey blinked away emotion. "Huh?"

"Chinese food. Where do you usually order from?"

"Oh... We don't usually have Chinese. Sasha won't let us eat it unless it's real."

"Real...like what?"

"I mean authentic," Casey corrected himself.

"Okay, well...do you have the yellow pages?"

Casey dug the two-inch thick book out of one of the drawers in the kitchen, the one where all the non-specific junk got stored — things like elastic bands and decks of cards, books of matches and various leaflets for take-out pizza joints. He let his dad unilaterally select a phone number.

With the food ordered, they reseated themselves in the living room, in their habitual places, and his father flipped a few channels until he found a recap of the college football season that was playing on the sports network. Casey tolerated it for a while, then said, "Uh, Dad? Do we have to watch this?"

His father shot him a frown. "No...guess not," he grumbled. "What do you want to watch?"

"I don't know. What's on?"

"Here." His father tried to hand him the remote.

"Oh, no, I wouldn't take that from you, Dad."

"Very funny. I do share the remote, you know...your mother gets to hold it at least twice a week.

"Un-huh...just press the Guide button so we can see what's on."

Casey's father waved the remote at him again. "Would you take the thing already?"

With a sigh, Casey accepted the symbol of domestic power. He scrolled up and down in the on-screen guide and found nothing that interested him. "There's nothing on," he said, and put it back on the sports channel.

His father made a face at him.

"I don't mind it that much," Casey said, with a shrug.

They watched for a bit longer, until his father caught him yawning and said, "We never did watch that movie."

"Which movie?"

"The other night, remember? Just before you...before everything happened. I was going to have you choose."

Casey felt himself on shaky ground, suddenly. "What movie do you want to watch?"

"Whatever you like, Casey."

"But you probably don't like anything here."

"Hey, give your old man a chance."

"Sorry," Casey said quickly.

"No...no...it was a joke. I'm just saying we can watch whatever you like."

Casey took a breath. "How about Casablanca?"

His father shrugged, just as their doorbell rang. "That'll be the food," he said, going to answer it. Casey followed him, going to the kitchen to get plates and silverware out while his father received and paid for a large, brown paper bag. An enticing smell reached Casey's olfactory apparatus, and his stomach gurgled in approval.

Pulling the various-sized containers from large paper bags, his father heaped rice onto Casey's plate for him, ladling the sweet and sour sauce on it. Casey just let him, amazed that his dad had remembered that he liked his rice with the neon pink sauce. Without consultation, his father proceeded to pile on chicken, Cantonese chow mein and a spring roll. Then he filled his own plate, and Casey couldn't help grinning when his dad grabbed a dishtowel and tucked it into his collar. He had been using dishtowels in lieu of napkins for as long as Casey could remember.

"What?" his father asked, seeing his smile.

"Nothing," Casey answered. He grabbed a napkin for himself while his dad took a beer out of the fridge, and they went into the living room. Casey got the movie set up and they set to eating side by side on the couch. Throughout the film his father mostly made sound effects — little, frustrated mewls and other sounds that were presumably sighs of disgust, but it wasn't until Ingrid Bergman said, "You're going to have to do the thinking for both of us," that Casey's dad snorted and said, "I'll bet whoever wrote that didn't know a lot of women."

Casey was caught with his mouth full; he giggled a bit but said nothing.

"I thought this was a classic movie."

"It is," Casey mumbled, gulping down the food.

"With stupid lines like that... women wouldn't even want to watch it."

"It was a different time, Dad. You could get away with stuff like that...and lots of women do like the movie."

His father grumbled under his breath.

"What did you say?"

"I said why should she want him to do all the thinking? He's an idiot."

Casey caught himself on the brink of arguing. "Let's just watch it, Dad, please."

His father didn't comment again. At the conclusion of the film he said, "Well, I don't see what the big deal is about with that movie." He canted a look at Casey. "You're going to study this sort of thing?"

"I want to," Casey replied.

"Hmm. Doesn't seem all that useful."

"Dad..."

Just as quickly as he'd raised it, Casey's father tried to shake off the potential controversy. "Never mind."

"I...just..."

"It's fine, Casey." His father shrugged. "I don't get it but obviously we're two different people, you and me. Let's leave it at that, okay?"

"Kay." Casey cleared his throat, then collected their plates for removal to the kitchen.

"I was thinking... do you mind if I give your mom a call?"

"Of course not," Casey said. He transported the dirty dishes as far as the counter and left them there. "Hey...Dad?"

"What?"

Hesitating, he returned to his warm place on the living room couch. Then he said, "Do you...do you miss Mom?"

His father, perched on the edge of his chair, frowned a bit. "Why do you want to know?"

"I guess I...I wonder if you can love someone and not miss them when they're away."

If nothing else it was interesting to watch his father deal with the word "love" in a conversation. "Hell...I don't know, Casey." And that was all the answer that he was going to get, it seemed; with a quelling glare, his father resumed his previous task of calling Herrington, making a face at each unanswered ring. "Maybe she went out some — " He stopped. "Hi, it's me...no, everybody's fine. No, really...he's right here...yes...just having some Chinese food. You want to talk to him? Okay."

Casey's dad held out the phone to him. Taking it, Casey said, "Hi, Mom."

"Hi, hon. Are you...okay?"

"I'm feeling a little better."

"Oh!" His mom sounded almost tearful with relief. "That's good to hear. So you and your father are hanging out tonight?"

"I guess. What are you doing?"

"Not much. Just watching TV."

"Same here. We're a dull family, huh?"

"I'd hardly say that," Casey's father commented under his breath.

"Well...Happy New Year's, hon," Casey's mother said.

"Same to you, Mom...here's Dad back."

Casey's father accepted the phone back. "Allison? Yeah. I know. Listen, I think I'll stay a few more days and come home on Thursday...yeah..." Casey received a stealthy look. "I'll talk to you tomorrow...miss you, too." His father hung up, clearing his throat. "Hey, is Dick Clark on or what?"

His father's complexion had gone a little pink, but Casey pretended not to notice. He just searched for the right channel.

It wasn't the most entertaining time he had ever spent, and that was just fine since he didn't know how late he was going to last. He was content to just sit and listen and watch Dick Clark doing what he had done since time immemorial. Once in a while he recalled that Zeke was probably enjoying a big party right now, eating cake...dancing with every single woman in California, including that one who answered the phone and probably all of them glad many times over that Casey wasn't there — no, no, no, he wasn't going to do this. Not tonight, not for the next few hours. He owed that to everyone.

By midnight he could barely hold his eyes open but he stuck it out so he could see the new year rung in. He had a beer ready for his Dad and a soda for himself, and when the ball dropped, they drank a wordless toast.

"You want a sip?" his dad said, offering the bottle of beer to him.

"Um...okay." He tipped the bottle back and swallowed a small mouthful, confirming that he really didn't care for the taste. His face probably showed it, too, for his dad laughed.

"Not your fave, huh? That's probably just as well." His dad patted his belly.

Casey yawned. "Dad...I think I'm going to bed now."

"You've had quite a day, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Sounds like a plan. I probably won't be up too much later myself."

"You don't...um, you don't mind the couch?"

"No, it's fine. Very comfy, actually."

After a moment's hesitation, Casey leaned in and hugged his father. He felt a pat or two on his back. "Good night," he whispered.

"Good night."

He started for Sasha's room, changed his mind halfway there and went to his own bed. He fell asleep almost instantly, hugging the Zeke pillow to his face.

Somewhere along his convoluted journey of the past few days, he had lost his appreciation of the urgent necessity of keeping his guard up, and so the dream slammed him. He bolted up, hyperventilating, with no real memory of the dream except for the lingering scent of a man in his nostrils, a man who had been doing something to him that made him whimper and try futilely to get away, while laughter filled his ears from behind and something sharp clawed at his neck.

He gulped at the thin air in the room, his body dull with cold and yet quivering. If Zeke had been here, if Zeke were here and would hold him... but Zeke was gone, not coming back never, would hold Casey never want to touch him of course after what he did fucked up with Thomas fucked Thomas fucked him lied about it...lied about fucking him Zeke would never be here again...

If Yves can believe in aliens, you can believe that Zeke's not leaving you.

That was Sasha, of course, Sasha the optimist but Casey was not an optimist and fuck believing, fuck the whole concept of faith. He was a fucking whore and he was a scientist and he needed to hear it from Zeke's mouth before it became the truth.

On a quest for the phone, he scrambled to the living room. It was still pretty early, only eight something and some vestige of common sense told him Zeke would never be awake, but Casey still had to try. His father, snoring on the couch, didn't see him or wake up. He found the phone just where it had been left, on the coffee table, and the paper with Zeke's number just where it had fallen — on the floor in his bedroom.

By the time he was hidden in the bathroom to make his call, his breath was coming in short, shallow gasps. There were a couple of rings, and it sounded like Zeke's father who answered. "Hello?" said the mature, male voice.

"Oh," Casey said, his voice compromised by fear and shortness of breath and being afraid that he was going to asphyxiate from lack of oxygen with Zeke's father a witness all the way in Los Angeles... "Is it...Jacob?"

"Yes...is this Casey?"

"Y-yeah...c-can I talk to Zeke...please?"

"Well...Zeke is asleep right now, Casey. I'd rather not wake him, he had a late night."

"Oh...okay."

"I will tell him you called though."

"You'll t-tell him...soon as he wakes up?"

"Sure."

"Kay. Thank you."

"How are you, Casey?"

Casey swallowed hard, trying to digest that. "Huh?"

"How are you?"

"Oh, I'm...okay. Okay, I guess."

"That's good to hear."

Casey had run out of words, along with air.

"Well," Jacob said in a tone of finality. "I'll tell Zeke that you called."

That was it. I'll tell Zeke that you called and you're on your own now and why don't you stop being this pathetic...hopeless, pitiful... yes, he was and he couldn't live life this way, scared all the time, a burden to everyone. Other people were alone and were fine with it, they even enjoyed it. Oh, but not him...he was never going to see Zeke, or hear from him again and he knew it was true because it had the ring of tragedy. It was the way a sad story would end, and this was a sad story, wasn't it?

A few moments later, he nudged open the door to the other bedroom in the apartment. There were two lumps in the bed; Jerry must have spent the night and Casey backed up a step, his heart accelerating still. He'd nearly caused the demise of Sasha and Jerry's relationship once already —

"Kitten?" came Sasha's soft voice.

"S-sorry."

"What's the matter?" Sasha's nose and forehead appeared.

"Panic...attack..."

"Oh, poor kitten. Come in here."

"But..Sasha," Casey whined, staring at the human-shaped node that was Jerry.

"It's okay," Sasha said. "Just come on over here and cuddle up between mommy and daddy — ow! Jerry!"

Jerry threw off his covers suddenly and spun his bare legs onto the floor; he was wearing only boxers and an undershirt. "I'll go in your bed for a while," he said to Casey.

Casey didn't protest it; he couldn't afford to. He gave Jerry a grateful look as they passed each other, then scurried to the bed. He nudged himself in close to Sasha and on this occasion didn't have it in him to give a damn how much skin was touching because with each second like this, his heart rate eased a little.

"So sorry," he mumbled.

"It's okay," Sasha replied. He wrapped his arms tight around Casey and rocked him, sighing. "Jerry understands."

Casey sighed, glorying in the things that he must remember never to take for granted...like closing his eyes, and breathing, experiencing a restful safety that led to sleep. And for a while, sleep became perfect. He floated, maybe drowned, not returning to the surface until he heard the phone ringing and then his father and Sasha talking. It was a soft mumble that he couldn't make out and didn't care. He could have stayed here forever. Maybe it was only a dream, but he was home... a place that smelled like coffee, and the caramel-burnt smell that he always associated with waffles...and something like onions...

To his surprise, it was the growling of his stomach that rousted him out of bed.

"It's awake!" Sasha greeted him when he appeared in his t-shirt and sweats in the kitchen. "I thought you were going to sleep right through the day."

"Smelled food," was all Casey had to say. He filled the kettle and plugged it in, dismissing the flicker of hope that he might be allowed some coffee.

"This will be a few minutes...go sit down."

Casey's father and Jerry were both already at the table. Jerry was now wearing a little bit more clothing — a pair of Sasha's pajama bottoms and a t-shirt — and he was reading a men's fitness magazine. He winked at Casey. "Happy New Year," he said, demonstrating no rancour towards him.

"Happy New Year," Casey replied.

Casey's dad looked up from his newspaper that had to be at least a day old. "Case...Charlotte Rosado invited me to her house tonight. She's having a bit of a party, I said I would go. I hope that's all right with you."

"Of course."

"Brunch is just about ready," Sasha announced rather unnecessarily, coming out of the kitchen. His brow furrowed and he said, "You do like waffles?"

"Yeah," Casey replied with a smile. "I like waffles."

He might have managed to finish his brunch if it weren't for the way that Sasha insisted on making enough food for thirty people, and piling Casey's plate with Zeke-sized portions of everything. The waffles were large enough, but there was also the fruit, and the turkey sausage with tomatoes and peppers. The end of the meal found them all groaning in the half-pain, half-euphoria of the over-satisfied.

Casey and Jerry then shared the task of washing the dishes while Casey's dad sprawled in the living room, digesting. With the mess disposed of, Casey excused himself to his room to try a bit of journalling.

January 1st, 2002, he began.

Well, I had a panic attack this morning. I don't know what it means. Maybe nothing, except I'm not cured, exactly like Dr. Yves said. Anyway, I tried to phone Zeke again and this time I got his father. I don't think he likes me. I think he'd be happier if Zeke and I weren't together. Or he already knows that we're not.

This is where Sasha would say I'm being silly. I should review that list, but it won't make me feel better. I don't believe that any of it is true. I just know that I should believe. If I were a more sane kind of person, I would. Or maybe just a better person.

If I were a better person, I wouldn't have screwed up with Thomas the way I did. Zeke is totally within his rights to never want me after this. I hurt him big time. And what did he say? ‘I'll probably forgive you.' If I were better, I'd remember that and not everything else. I'd be able to tell if I love him and know that I mean it. I've been telling myself that I do, I've been clinging and trying to be with him every second but I don't know what I feel.

If I were a good person

He was sniffling a little. He finished the sentence...I would let him go... then tossed his pen on the bed, closing the journal. "Enough," he whispered, and it was indeed enough. He'd be in tears again soon, and he'd done enough crying already. He turned to the fantasy novel that he'd been struggling to read for almost four months. He was still only about a hundred pages in because every time he picked it up he would read a bit, then get caught up in life events for a whole month at a time. Or, more often, he'd just nod off.

He'd been at it for an indefinite length of time and was beginning to get that heavy-lidded feeling again when Sasha knocked and stuck his head in. "Casey? You all right?"

Rolling onto his back so he could see who he was talking to, Casey replied, "Just reading."

"Ah...Jerry and I are going for a little drive, okay?"

"Okay."

Sasha paused, then said with a smile, "No panic attacks while I'm gone."

On cue, Casey's heart gave a thud. "No panic attacks," he agreed.

"We'll be back before it's time for your dad to go out."

"Sasha... don't worry about me."

Predictably, Sasha made a face.

Casey went back to his book, half-listening to the sounds of Sasha and Jerry talking amongst themselves as they got together the necessary equipment for a couple of hours' excursion — maps, coats, hats, bottles of wine, at least two kinds of cheese and three kinds of fruit — and finally got themselves out the door. He heard the sounds of New Year's Day parades in the living room, and knew that both father and son would soon be snoring through the holiday. It was a family tradition, apparently.

His next dream was more frustrating than scary, at first. In it, the phone was ringing and he couldn't get himself awake. He couldn't unglue his eyelids, even when he heard Zeke's voice and knew that it was him on the phone. When finally his eyes were open, he could have run out to answer it — but then he was scared. He put his hands over his ears to blot out what Zeke was saying, he couldn't bear to hear the words, the Sorry, Casey, I can't come back...I can't forgive you...I just can't do it, I actually have some respect for myself, you know...

Shortly, he heard his father moving around a bit. With a racing heart he finally got up, soliciting the gods or destiny or fate or whatever presided over this moment. I don't wanna I don't wanna but I need to and no I don't whatever it says it says waiting for it won't change it to something better just know don't be a coward. He staggered down the hall to the kitchen. His father was standing in front of the answering machine, favouring his sore foot. "I heard Zeke," his father said.

"Yeah."

"Why didn't you get the phone?"

"I was sleeping."

"Oh, well, I heard him say — "

"No!" Casey gulped. "Don't."

His father looked sharply at him. After a moment's stare his father said, "Just listen to the message." He limped carefully out of the kitchen, moving towards the bathroom.

Casey chewed his lip and tried to still his trembling, then reached out to press play.

"Hi," Zeke said. "I heard you called. I'm coming home early. I'll call again and let you know when I arrive. If you're trying to call, my cell number right now is 818- 555-7801."

When his father got back from the bathroom, a minute later, Casey was standing just where he had been, staring at the answering machine. "Well?" his father prompted.

"He's...coming home," Casey said.

"Yes, I know." After a brief hesitation, his father put a hand on his shoulder, just long enough to convey his appreciation of the good news. "He didn't say when he'd be here, though."

"No."

His father opened the fridge, surveyed the contents for a moment, then selected a beer. "Come and watch football with me," he said.

Casey gave his father a stare. "What?"

"Keep me company for a bit or I'll fall asleep again."

"Aw, Dad..."

"Hey, I watched your movie last night...and I know for a fact you used to go to your high school games."

"That was so I could see the guys running around in tight spandex."

His father flushed crimson. "Well...you can still do that."

Casey shrugged. "Guess so," he said slowly.

"Come on, then."

"Um...Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm — kind of — proud of you."

His dad reached over and grasped him by the shoulders. "I'm proud of me too," he said, gently squeezing him. "Now don't get mad at me but I just have to say this."

"What, Dad?"

"When Zeke gets back..."

"Yes?"

"Just...don't give away the farm."

Casey wasn't entirely sure what that meant but he suspected that his father wanted him to practice dignified acceptance, no matter what the outcome was. "I won't," he said.

They waited together in the living room. Casey pointed his eyes at the men up on the screen with the tight pants and exaggerated shoulders, while his mind tried to convince the rest of him that Zeke wasn't just coming back to Seattle, that he was on his way home. I believe, he chanted. I believe.

All right, he wasn't buying it — but at least he wanted to try to pretend. That had to be change of some kind.


	10. Chapter 10

Through the frame of an airplane window, Seattle looked a lot like home, which made little sense to Zeke. It could have been a video game, that constellation of white and red and green lights — pretty against the black canvas but there was nothing about it that should have said home. Home was an apartment above a store, a comfy couch and a monster TV, a particular bed with a particular person in it. Home was not an entire city even if it was dressed up for the holidays. Seattle should have been just another place but instead it was holding itself out like some cozy, wooly sweater with a happy-face knitted on it. Zeke didn't get it.

Fuck if that was the least of the many things that he didn't get. At least he could admit that, so it must be a sign that he was maturing. What really bugged him about it, though, was the possibility that he was becoming sentimental in his old age, an appalling thought because the last thing he needed was to feel any more than he already did. His gut and head and groin were full as it was; all the way from Los Angeles they'd been tingling, churning and burbling.

Ever since Casey's call this morning, nearly twelve full hours. A person's life could change entirely in twelve hours...or it could end. There was no way to guess what Zeke would find when he got home, but in the interim he'd certainly made full use of his imagination. He'd seen Casey hurt, Casey crying, Casey struggling for air and calling his name...even Casey dead. He couldn't flinch from that possibility.

Yeah, he was such a fucking hero. So valiant of him to have run away from Casey at the Cincinnati airport, and even more valiant that this afternoon he hadn't even tried to call home again before the plane left. So brave. Very shortly he would be on the ground, though, and he would have no viable excuse, he would have to call home and give them some warning that he was on his way, supposing that anyone answered. Supposing that anyone was there to answer.

For now, by keeping his face plastered to the window, Zeke managed to fascinate himself with the scatter of light, attempting to shape from the minutae some notion of roofs, roads, even vehicles. It became a tiny toy universe under his perusal, gradually growing bigger and brighter, growing out of his compass until at last the plane touched down with a bump and a squeal of rubber. Simultaneously, his skin began to hum, his muscles to quiver. His blackened lungs reminded him that it had been several hours since his last cigarette.

It was all wasted energy at first, though, because he had been sealed in with several hundred of the slowest passengers in America, every one of them not-so-busily procuring some monstrosity of a carry-on bag. Waiting for them to sort themselves out and resolve into a moving line comprised ten of the longest minutes of his life.

At last he was able to walk off the plane at his own pace and he went directly past the smiling, joyous reunions in the Arrivals area and past the baggage claim to the first set of sliding doors he could find. Taxis, a sign said. He stepped out into the surprising misty chill of Seattle — nowhere near as brutal as Ohio had been, but a far cry from the warmth he'd woken to this morning. His jaw was clenching involuntarily as he tipped out a cigarette and lit it under the knowing stare of a nearby cabbie who was leaning up against his cab. The first drag was nothing less than a religious experience, and the second settled him enough to face reality.

A phone call was required. He couldn't just show up, and if something bad had happened, he needed to give himself some advance warning.

Propping the cigarette under his upper lip, Zeke dug out his phone and turned it on. He punched in the numbers, grabbed the cigarette back and wondered if he had time for another drag — just as Casey's voice sounded in Zeke's ear.

"Hello?"

Zeke's mouth went dry. His knees actually got weak, and he looked for a place to sit. There was nothing nearby except cement and large panes of window, so he moved in closer to the nearest wall, turning his face towards the familiar inside world of the airport, and a delusion of privacy. Snatching the cigarette away from his mouth, he said as clearly as he could, "Casey, it's — "

"Zeke?" There was an audible tremble, anxiety rising towards the end of the saying of his name and cresting in the next word. "Wh-where are you?"

"You're okay?"

Casey went quiet for a long time. "Yeah," he said at length.

And the sick truth sprung to life and took virulent possession of Zeke's mind: Yet again, he had done the stupid thing. Stupid, stupid Zeke Tyler, poor sap who had run off in a hysteria because his boyfriend called without leaving a message, and because it just happened to give him an opening to rant against his father. Just unbelievably stupid.

While he was having this epiphany of the obvious, Casey seemed to be getting increasingly frantic. "Zeke — Zeke — ?"

"Yeah, I'm here. Why didn't you answer?"

"Huh?"

"Every time I phoned there was no answer."

It sounded like Casey was wheezing a bit. "It was...I... It was t-timing...I guess."

"Yeah...really bad timing." Zeke's attempt at laughter died in a squawk. He blurted, "Did you get my message?"

"The...this aftern...today?"

"Un-huh. That one."

"Yeah."

"But you didn't try to call me then."

"You didn't call me.," Casey blurted unexpectedly.

Zeke really didn't know what that was supposed to mean but he shook off the entire, moronic train of dialogue with, "Anyway. I'm at the airport...in Seattle."

Casey's breathing transformed. Within five inhales it went from I'm-pretty- rattled here to I-think-I'm-dying, and it had a perversely calming effect on Zeke. Okay, he could do this now. He was the strong one, it was Casey who needed, Casey who had to pull himself together. "Case — " Zeke started.

But Casey gulped, "S-Sasha — " and then was taken away from him before he could make the slightest effort at solace. Zeke heard Sasha's voice softly in the background: Calm down...calm down, kitten...there you are, that's better... Zeke could only wait, and draw hard on his cigarette.

"Zeke, darling."

At last, someone was talking to him. Swallowing the slightly bitter flavour of nicotine and tar, Zeke asked, "Is he okay?"

"Yes," Sasha replied. "He just needs to catch his breath... Zeke, where are you calling from? The airport?"

"Yeah."

"So you got a flight. We weren't sure."

"Yep."

"Do you want us to come and get you?"

Even as Sasha spoke, Zeke's eye snagged on a joyful scene on the other side of the glass window. It looked like mother, father and children, everyone smiling and hugging in a disgraceful display of pure emotion. It should have been frigging embarrassing for them, and he could only assume that his own airport reunion would be much, much worse — Casey and Sasha dribbling tears, each for his own assorted reasons, and generally making a spectacle of themselves.

"No," Zeke said. "I'll take a cab, it'll be faster."

"You should have called before to let us know when you were landing."

"Except I didn't." It came out like a slap. Zeke closed his eyes, gripping the phone hard. "Anyway, I didn't have time and... I'll be home shortly."

"Okay. See you soon. Oh, and Zeke?"

"Yeah?"

"We've missed you here."

Zeke didn't know what to say to that, under the circumstances. "Yeah," he answered. "Okay, bye."

He took his time finishing his smoke, and then, moving back inside to claim his luggage, he neither hurried nor dawdled. It just so happened that there was much to mull over and little time before he had to confront the living Casey in the flesh. He took up a position near the conveyor belt along with a cluster of other passengers, tuning them out.

Experience told him that the moment he saw Casey, all of his mental processes would be compromised; the sound of that voice on the phone had just been a reminder. That voice was wired directly to his bodily functions now and he couldn't deny it as much as he hated it. Yeah, he hated it. After all, this body was supposed to be his. It should be his inner life that dictated what went on in this body, his thoughts, his petty worries and complications. He had been completely infected by Casey and the worst of it was, he had let it happen.

A beeping alerted him that his bags were on the conveyor belt already. Time was running short and he still hadn't gotten any real thinking accomplished. As he hefted the despised hockey bag for almost the last time, he decreed silently that from now on he would do better. Maybe he couldn't purge the disease, but he still had to figure it all out even if it meant he repressed himself into an inanimate state. He was — how did the song go? A rock. An island. A desert island on a planet in a distant galaxy, an ice floe... fuck. He was freakin' out of his mind.

Heading back outside, he found the first available cab. He gave the man his address and he sat back to set some new records for synchronous use of brain capacity. Lights and billboards, buildings and cars and trucks and road signs...they all flashed past. He saw them, but didn't really see anything.

Okay, for a start, Casey was alive. Casey was living at home, apparently intact and more or less able to converse despite his previous insistence that separation from Zeke would equal doom. So Zeke was now in a position to point out that he had been right once again. Score one for him. People didn't die of broken hearts — they just didn't.

On the other hand, people could get fairly irrational over the interference with what was, after all, habit. Confronted with the absence of Casey, it had taken no less than three days for Zeke to flip out and short change himself in his personal negotiations with the rest of the world...with his father, no less. Such a romantic, important statement he'd made this morning — and he still couldn't feel regret for it, even if his father had been right. He was obsessed with Casey and there had been no need for him to leave early. Except that having learned what he now knew to be his father's true opinion about Casey and himself, he was glad not to be under the man's roof.

Still — if his father made an effort, they might be able to salvage something of their relationship. Zeke would not be the one stepping forward, not in the immediate future. He was way too annoyed with his father for his little fib about Casey having called, for being that much of a — scaredy-boy, as Chloe had put it.

Oh, yeah, Chloe must have him and his father pegged. Scaredy-boys... fuck, he wished he could talk to her. There was something so right about everything she said, so eminently sane.

Well, for now he would just do his best not to be scared, and deal with the fact that he was pretty much back to where he had started on the parent front, except that his mother now had his phone number. And it was important to make himself remember that this was not Casey's fault. Of all the things he might be angry at Casey about, it was not the tragic vicissitudes of the Tyler line. Jacob was afraid of his murderous son, and the son kind of couldn't blame him. The son had shot a teacher in the head. That wasn't Casey's fault either — although if Zeke let himself think about it, it wasn't very fair that Casey had been too weak to pull that trigger, and it wasn't exactly fair that Casey got to kill something that looked like a big, scary monster while Zeke had killed something like a beautiful woman. No, it had been a beautiful woman, even if she was a first class bitch. Not that bitchiness had made her less attractive. He was fond of bitches, witness the Delilah episode...anyway, it wasn't Casey's fault, not really. That was the essential thing to bear in mind.

A quick stare out the window confirmed that he had only minutes left. He was nearly in his own neighbourhood.

It couldn't be like it had been — this was clear. Casey was a mess and they had to keep their distance from each other for the duration. Zeke had to manage that, for Casey and for himself. For Casey, because obviously Casey was incapable of having sex without turning it into something perverse, and for himself because...well, it just hurt a bit to know someone was turning you into their scourge. He was sentimental enough to admit this much: He wanted something good. He would even go so far as to say that he wouldn't mind a happy ending this one time.

He had learned things. He wasn't some emotional moron. He understood what forgiveness meant now. Yeah, thousands of miles, thousands of dollars in airplane tickets and a really heinous encounter with a heinous man later — he got it. Forgiveness was not understanding. It just meant deciding that, despite all the reasons not to, you forgave.

He forgave Casey for the mistake that was Thomas. The fact that he wanted to bellow and snarl and smash things whenever he thought about Casey and Thomas together didn't really count for anything, because he forgave. Maybe he wanted to fuck that memory out of Casey, make sure that Casey forgot how to even look at someone else as a sex object — but he was accepting that it had happened. He forgave.

Okay, since that was sorted, he still had the rather massive problem of how to sort out Casey — which, he supposed, he was supposed to leave to Casey.

Except Yves got to help, so why shouldn't Zeke be able to help too? He was the person who spent more time with Casey than anyone. He was entitled to help. Sure, he'd destroyed the record of Roy's villainy. He had given up trying to will himself to understanding and that meant he would force nothing from Casey but it didn't mean he was going to trust the shrinks and the Sashas with this. They would bully, coddle and cajole Casey into absolute dependence on them, and that was not to be tolerated. Casey would depend on Zeke. If he was fixed by anyone, it would be Zeke. Problem was, this would require stuff like patience and careful listening. Zeke just didn't know if he had it in him at this point.

One thing he did know: Casey must never discover that he'd met Roy, and that they'd talked, at length, about the things that Casey had guarded so desperately for so long. And Sasha couldn't know either. It was tempting to share, to commiserate together because if anyone would understand the insanity of dealing with Roy, it was Sasha — but too fucking bad. The last time Zeke told Sasha a secret, Sasha had blabbed to Casey. The man just didn't know how to control his mouth. Unless, of course, he was keeping a secret for Casey. From Casey was impossible... for Casey was a whole other situation, but Zeke would accept that. He would accept that when it came right down to it, Casey was Sasha's mission.

Such were the facts.

"Here we are."

Zeke blinked. "Huh?"

The cabbie pointed at the all-too-familiar front door of Wellth. "Home, man."

"Oh." With hands suddenly gone a little stiff, Zeke fumbled for his wallet. He dug out a couple of twenties and handed them over. "Keep the change."

"Thanks, man. Hey, Happy New Year."

"Huh? Oh, yeah...same to you."

His legs felt leaden as he went around to the back to collect his things, assisted by the cabbie. Moments later he was standing alone on the curb with the two pieces of luggage and a great weight of inertia, peering up at his own living room window. His sickly brain whispered to him that he really could use another smoke before he went in there.

"Zeke!" With a friendly wave and broad grin, Jerry was emerging from the side alley. "Welcome back." A strong, male handshake confirmed his sincerity. "I'll carry one of those."

"Oh...I was thinking of leaving them here on the curb, actually."

Jerry chuckled. "And just buy all new stuff?"

"Yeah." Zeke picked up his suitcase, deliberately leaving the hockey bag for Jerry, and began the last leg of his trip.

"We saw you pull up," Jerry said, allowing him to lead the way along the side of the building towards the stairs up to his door. As usual, everything was soaked; mud sullenly gave way under Zeke's feet. Unexpectedly, Jerry added, "Sasha's trying to peel Casey off the ceiling. I'm the decoy."

Zeke stopped and twisted around to look at Jerry, who still grinned. If Jerry was making jokes, it couldn't be that bad. "Oh," Zeke faltered. "Well...I could really use a smoke right now."

"Ah," Jerry said, nodding.

Zeke dropped his burden and leaned up against the building. Still smiling, Jerry shaped a parallel alongside him and folded his arms. He hummed briefly, then stopped.

"You want one?" Zeke asked, waving the cigarette pack under Jerry's nose.

"God, no. I'd like to live past forty, thank you."

"Are you and Sasha identical twins, by any chance?"

Jerry snorted. "I wish."

Rummaging for his lighter, Zeke thought about delving into that statement and changed his mind. He settled for a sideways glance, then made fire and suckled hard. "What did you do last — " He paused, blew out a long stream as smoke. It was almost as good as the last cigarette. "Oh, you probably worked last night, right?"

"Yep."

"That sucks."

"Not really. I made five hundred in tips...and the restaurant will be closing in January for a couple of weeks. It's kind of like our holiday...you know, when everyone's poor and overfed. It's usually a pretty slow time of year."

One more deep haul, and Zeke was feeling ready for reality. Staring across the alley, he asked, "So what should I expect when I go up there?"

Jerry, too, did not look at him. They avoided each other's gaze, remaining manfully in profile, and Zeke appreciated that. He found that he appreciated Jerry, in fact. "Um...I don't know, what do you want me to tell you?"

"Is Casey okay?"

"Define okay."

All right, fine. It had been a stupid question. Zeke shrugged and shivered a bit.

"He's different," Jerry added, unsolicited.

"Define different," Zeke returned. He really needed to get up there now. He let fall and stomped on his barely smoked cigarette. "Let's go up."

Jerry nodded and lifted the hockey bag.

They were forced to take the stairs with great care, as every one of them wore a light coat of rime, just enough to make it dangerous. Zeke made a note to call Tara and get her in to throw down some salt or something...and there must be some other important tasks for him if he really thought about it, all sorts of things to keep him busy and distracted but for some reason he couldn't think of any... and all too soon he was running out of stairs.

"Fuck it," he muttered, and just went in.

It was a bit of a shock to find them directly in his path — Sasha presenting himself at the door and Casey lurking behind and just to one side, not entirely visible. Zeke could only discern his arm and a part of his hair. He didn't get a chance to try to see more because Sasha had moved in immediately for a hug. Zeke dropped his suitcase and let him have it, not at all minding the sensation of long, strong arms circling him, of a chest pressed warmly against his. "Zeke," Sasha murmured. "You're back."

Over Sasha's shoulder, Zeke could at last see Casey. He could see Casey's eyes — gaping wide, glittering, not even blinking. Devoid of proper language, they yanked and clawed and begged but never came any closer while Zeke felt the distance between them and himself shrink and widen simultaneously.

Different, his mind whispered.

Sasha pulled away from Zeke, oblivious it seemed. "It feels like you've been gone for a month," Sasha said, smiling.

"I think I have," Zeke replied, his eyes creeping towards Sasha's shoulder, and then back to his face.

"I missed you, sweetheart."

Zeke wrestled a grimace into a grin. "It hasn't even been a week."

"Well, I missed you. That all right with you?"

"Okay." Zeke shrugged.

"How was the wedding?"

"Not bad."

Sasha frowned. "You know that's not going to satisfy me," he said.

Zeke just barely heard him, preoccupied with renewing his visual contact with the pallid figure that was Casey — a flat, floating spectre of Casey that seemed to be getting further and further away, ghosting back along the wall an inch at a time. Its feet didn't even seem to move.

"Jesus Christ on a cross!" Sasha exclaimed suddenly. "This is killing me. Somebody hug someone, already."

Normally, Zeke would have cursed Sasha for drawing attention to the obvious and doing it in his usual, discomfort-making fashion, but just now he was more than willing to let himself be helped. He'd been upset about Thomas but he was over it, right? He'd decided and yeah, he would get over it, touch Casey and — and — no, not fuck him, he'd promised he wouldn't. Still, his senses twitched, starved neurons readying themselves to receive all the missing input, the feel of Casey under his hands, the smell of his hair and his skin...and the taste, the fucking taste and smell of him.

Helplessly called forward, Zeke took a step — but at the prospect of being touched by him, Casey went almost as far as he could go without actually passing through the wall; he was nearly in the corner. His eyes glowed with — nothing as simple as no, it was even worse than no. It was a sort of burning horror and Zeke stilled with several feet of space between them.

Sasha's smile fell away. "Okay," he said. "Or not."

So this was how it would be, then. Casey fucked around on him and fucked him over besides, he sent out the siren vibes the minute Zeke came in the door like he wanted, demanded Zeke's attention and then when Zeke was ready to comply...well, fine. He wouldn't be touching Casey in the foreseeable future.

Belatedly, he realized that Jerry was still somewhere in behind him; he shifted and pressed forward a bit to make room and ignored Casey's violent twitch. Jerry brought Zeke's bag all the way into the hall and offered, "I'll put these in your room for you."

"Thanks," Zeke replied, watching as Jerry picked up the suitcase as well, dragging them towards the bedroom.

Casey didn't move from his place near the wall. His stare grew, swallowing all the light and the oxygen. Zeke's head started to whirl, and suddenly an image of Casey folded up under Thomas spun before his eyes. They were in his bed, his and Casey's and Casey's head was thrown back, his mouth shaping a perfect, silent "O".

"Uh...Zeke?"

Somehow, Zeke hauled in a breath and faced Sasha. "What?"

As though repeating himself, Sasha observed, "You must be tired, huh?"

"Oh. Yeah."

"Are you hungry? There's some leftover pasta."

Zeke thought about it and it sounded good. He hadn't eaten anything since the White Castle this morning, and he supposed he was still a bit hung over. Eating would give him something else to think about, if nothing else. "Yeah, I guess I am."

"Have a seat, I'll heat it up."

"You don't have to — "

"Sit!" Sasha barked.

Zeke didn't think disobedience would be well-received. He divested himself of his coat and boots and took his place at the table. Checking back, he saw that Casey was still against the wall, his eyes sutured to Zeke's face, pouring themselves into his head... All this doesn't matter, it doesn't exist. Don't listen to them, don't listen to reason...

"Kitten, do you want some tea?" Sasha called out from the kitchen.

Don't even listen to me...you know what I need. I'm yours...not his.

"Hello?" Sasha all but shouted. "Waiting for an answer to my question!"

The alien in the corner started, coming back to some semblance of humanity. "No, thank you," Casey said, like a perfectly normal person, then went back to his silent possession of Zeke's mind.

It might have been Jerry crossing in front of Zeke's visual field that saved him. Clinging to a figure that made him feel sane, Zeke tracked Jerry to the chair across from him, where he plopped down with an audible sigh. "Thanks for doing that, man."

"You've been hauling those around for how long?"

"Way too long," Zeke answered.

The microwave beeped. A moment later, Sasha whisked a plate under Zeke's nose; he caught a whiff of delicious and looked down at chicken, bacon, sun- dried tomatoes and olives, with fettucine. His stomach roared. He assaulted the food in a hurry. Sasha took a seat, leaving one chair unclaimed, and Zeke waited for Sasha to urge Casey to take it. But Sasha left Casey as he was.

"This is really good," Zeke mumbled.

"You must have had some good food...last night, right?"

"Ugh, no. It was like... they put a teaspoon of food on a place and dressed it up with some zigzag thing and some fancy bits of vegetable and that was it."

"Poor baby."

"I was starving."

"I'm sure you were. Your father should have known better."

"Huh," was all Zeke had to say.

"Speaking of fathers..." Not bothering to disguise anything, Sasha gave Casey a significant look, like he was trying to remind him to do something, but Casey said nothing, of course. With a frown, Sasha continued, "Frank's still staying with us."

That was a surprise to Zeke. "I thought..."

"He decided to stay for a few days."

"Why?"

Everyone was suddenly staring at Casey like there really was something he was supposed to say, and again he was utterly silent. It wasn't like anyone had any right to expect him to speak, act like a relatively normal person, maybe even try an apology for being a total slut...

Fuck.

Zeke concentrated on narrowing down his meal to a few scraps and told himself to see reason...no matter what the singsong madness in his head was going on about. He'd forgiven Casey, he had to remember that. And he always managed to forget how completely silent Casey could be. In high school he'd never been so silent. In high school there were always noises around him — rubber soles squeaking, other boys laughing, Casey's voice pleading and then other times, just talking. He'd had plenty to say back then, Casey did. On the other hand, Zeke wouldn't really have noticed when he was being silent either. He wouldn't have noticed all sorts of things.

"Just to...kind of be around," Sasha said.

Zeke blinked. "Huh?"

"You asked why Frank decided to stay."

"Oh...so where is he now?"

"He went to Charly's. She's having some sort of open house where they all sit around drinking beer and watching football. He'll be back later."

"Sounds fun."

"Yeah," Jerry agreed.

Sasha rolled his eyes. "Yeah. Loads of fun. So other than your father starving you, how did it go?"

"How did what go?"

"You know."

"Fine."

"Zeke...come on. I need details."

"It was a wedding."

"But where was it? Was it a big one? What did the bride wear? Was she totally tacky or — "

"Who's the woman?" Casey blurted suddenly.

All three of the other men in the room broke off what they were doing to stare at him. Under their eyes, Casey started to shudder, then to bump and rock against the wall, slowly at first but soon at very high speed. Just when it seemed that he would have to be bruising himself, he jolted into motion and was off down the hall. They all heard the slam of a door.

"Well," Zeke commented. "I'm glad to see some things don't change."

With a brief look at Jerry, Sasha reached across the table and put his hand on Zeke's. "He's had a rough bunch of days, Zeke."

"I could kinda tell," Zeke answered, and withdrew his hand. He found that he didn't really want to tolerate Sasha doing his comforting routine, not when he was being Casey's emissary... as always.

Glancing down at the space where their hands had been briefly in contact, and with a twist of hurt, Sasha said, "He missed you."

"Could've fooled me."

"Zeke," Sasha snapped. "Don't be an idiot."

"What woman was he talking about?"

"He said he called you one night and some woman answered the phone. I guess he didn't recognize her voice."

"It had to be Chloe, then. Melissa's daughter?"

"I figured it was probably something like that."

They were both being very calm and rational right now, but there was a lot more that Zeke wanted to say. Such as how dare Casey act the paranoid drama queen about a woman's voice on the phone when he, of the two of them, was the one who was actually not trustworthy. Such as Zeke was sick and fucking tired of this.

"Zeke," Sasha said. "Go and talk to him."

"I was planning to."

"And be nice," Sasha added, with an apologetic wince.

Sighing, Zeke picked up his dirty plate and brought it into the kitchen. He took his time rinsing it off, then headed off down the hall, finding his traditional position outside the door.

"Casey?" he called, barely suppressing the dozen plus emotions clamouring for recognition. Anger and frustration were the front-runners, chased by pure adrenalin. "Casey?"

Somewhat to his surprise, the answer came immediately. "Yeah."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm hav-having a slight — panic attack."

"Just a slight one?"

"Yeah."

"Well...do you have to stay in the bathroom?"

"I don't want you to s-see it."

"Why not?"

"Be-because...because you're tired of it."

Zeke rested his forehead on the door. "I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"Casey, how many times...don't tell me how I feel."

"Sorry."

"Will you just come out? I promise I'm not really angry." Zeke stepped back, and unexpectedly made note of the fact that the right side of the door jamb was mismatched with the rest of the frame, comprised of a different colour than it had been the last time he saw it. It was naked, unstained wood. He ran a finger down it; the fresh moulding was uncannily smooth under his hand, far too smooth. He frowned to himself and filed that information away for some other conversation. "Come on, Casey. I don't want to talk through — "

Just as suddenly as it had slammed, the door opened and Casey was peering uncertainly at him, chest heaving a bit. "I didn't want to do that," Casey said.

"Which part?" Zeke asked before he could think to censor it.

Casey blinked, sneaking an extra inhale, and gulped, "About the...the...woman."

Zeke couldn't think of what to say because, entirely without warning, his insides were getting warm and swollen like everything was suddenly okay — which it was not, dammit, and he was not going to smile either, he would not let himself feel tender and mushy inside just because Casey still had the ability to charm him. "Don't breathe so much," he told Casey brusquely. "You'll hyperventilate — just take it easy."

Closing his eyes, Casey did as he was told. "I didn't want to think that," he mumbled. "I tried."

"I get that, Case." Zeke almost put a hand on Casey's shoulder, and instantly reconsidered. "Look, the woman you talked to was Chloe, Melissa's daughter. Okay?"

Casey was quiet for a second, visibly fighting with the need to ask all kinds of questions. "Okay," he said at last, and opening his eyes, looked up at Zeke as though he trusted him.

The look knifed through Zeke and he found himself stammering, "So I — I guess I've kinda...acquired a sister. It's pretty weird..." When Casey didn't react other than to continue to bombard Zeke with that expression of utter, distracting trust, Zeke cleared his throat loudly and coughed up the only thing he could think of to distract him. "You — you okay now?"

Blinking slowly, Casey answered, "Yeah, just...just give me a sec...be right there."

With a nod, Zeke wrenched himself away and went back to the dining room.

Something had taken place here in his absence. Sasha was sitting in his chair, looking like he had been poured out of molten steel, while Jerry was rigidly staring at the wall, two spots of red high on his cheeks.

"Um," Zeke said. "Do you think we could..."

He had been about to say watch some tube but even in his head it sounded absurd. While he hunted for something else, Casey had slipped up behind and around to stand beside him, and his nose caught a hint of something — oranges. He jerked a look at the top of Casey's head, then forced himself to look away.

Casey crept in Sasha's direction and froze when Sasha abruptly moved his head and looked at him. "Hi, kitten," he said. "You're out, huh?"

"Yeah," Casey replied, sounding uncertain. He almost but didn't quite look at Jerry. "Sorry."

"It's okay." Sasha unexpectedly pinned a glare on his boyfriend. "These things take time," he said, all too meaningfully.

With a shift of his feet, Casey communicated his distress. He was going to be back in the bathroom soon enough, Zeke thought to himself. And he might just join Casey there at this rate.

"Jerry's going home," Sasha said. "Isn't that right, baby?" He didn't make a question of it.

"Yes," Jerry agreed. "And I think — "

"But you could stay here," Casey broke in. He shifted his feet again, almost dancing. "Jerry...you could sleep over. I'll...I'll sleep on the couch."

That broke the tableau on both sides. Jerry stopped staring at the wall, shaking his head at Casey with an expression that was nothing but fond, while Sasha's stiff posture melted. He stroked Casey's arm and said, "Your father would need somewhere to sleep, kitten. Somehow I don't think he'll be bunking in with Zeke, but that's not the issue anyway."

It was on the tip of Zeke's tongue to protest: It's not like Casey and I couldn't share a bed, for fuck sake. Not that he was going to say it, not now.

"What's the issue?" Casey asked in a tiny voice.

"Nothing for you to worry about. Now, I'm just going to walk Jerry to his car. I'm going to take my time about it, all right?"

Zeke looked up with a blink, then over at Casey. His face was the very paradigm of bewildered anxiety, and Zeke could definitely empathize. "But — " he began, the food in his stomach beginning to curdle.

"You two need to talk," Sasha said, as though he needed to make his intentions any clearer.

"That's not a good idea," Zeke said. Honestly had to be a virtue right now. It had to be, because it was all he could offer.

"I'm talking about twenty minutes here," Sasha said, his eyes going hard again, and in Jerry's direction. Jerry only sighed and moved stiffly from his chair.

"But...Sasha..." Casey whispered, eyes darting.

Sasha immediately drew Casey into the circle of two long arms and spoke to him in low tones. Zeke made out a gentle "you'll be fine," before he too slid out of his chair. He gave Zeke a steady look. It was both reminder and warning.

There had been a time when he would have trusted Zeke enough to leave for the entire night — and Zeke would find a time at some later junction to remind him that he was going to have to do just that. Twenty minutes of trust was all that Zeke would be allowed now, and he would have told Sasha not even to give him that much. He didn't want to be alone with Casey. He just — didn't.

But Sasha's determination — both to get out the door and to do it without looking at Casey — was obvious. He didn't touch or speak to Casey, getting booted and coated and out the door, leaving Casey standing halfway between his wall and the door. His arms were wrapped around himself and he was rocking slightly, his eyes enormous and disbelieving.

It was Jerry who offered up the tidbit of consolation. Just before following his boyfriend he put his hand on Casey's shoulder, a slight frown on his face. "Um...he'll be back," he said. "Don't worry."

"Jerry," Casey gulped.

"What?"

"Will you — ? I mean...will you be...um...will you be back?"

Jerry smiled. "If I have anything to say about it." He performed a shrug with a half-smile, half-wince before he too was out the door. It shut with a tone of finality that was, no doubt, entirely an accident.

"Okay," Zeke said. He shuffled his feet and looked at the walls, his hands. "I wasn't expecting this."

"They're going to break up," Casey croaked.

And Zeke just felt unutterably exhausted. He rolled his eyes and moved in the direction of the nearest couch. "Just because they had a fight," he muttered, not wanting to deal with this now, or deal with anything for that matter. The living room was blazing with light, cozy and cordial like it must have been just before he had gotten here. It occurred to him that home was a fucked-up concept.

"A fight about me," Casey said.

Zeke fell into Sasha's chair with a groan. "I don't think it was about you, per se." He rubbed his forehead, then opened his eyes and gave Casey a solid stare. "Not everything is about you, you know."

From the distance of several feet, Casey seemed small, barely present, and Zeke was astonished when he insisted, "It is about me. Sasha doesn't want to leave me alone."

Suddenly there was a question hanging. Zeke tilted his head back and closed his eyes again. He didn't want to ask it, didn't want to ask what was different, why everyone seemed to have changed in his absence. He didn't want to know — or at least maybe not until tomorrow, after he'd had a full night's sleep. "My head's killing me," he said.

"There's no Tylenol."

That was not mere information, no question about it. It was a challenge to Zeke, to open his eyes and ask something. He drew in some oxygen and tackled it. He was fully aware that he didn't have much choice — the usual story, and as usual, he would deal.

"Casey. Come and sit over here, will you?"

It happened without a sound, Casey drifting into the room, not sitting at first but then making himself, awkwardly lowering himself onto their couch, perching himself on the end.

"Tell me what happened," Zeke said.

Casey blinked, evidently just this side of frantic. "Don't be mad."

"Casey, I'm really tired of — "

"I called Yves."

"And why would I be mad about — okay, when did you call?"

"Um...Friday night."

"Why?"

Casey stared at the floor.

On a hunch that he was going to need something to hold onto, Zeke put his hand on the arm of his chair. He gripped it, hard. "Why, Casey?"

Casey was mumbling, barely audible. "...had...scary...what to..."

"Huh?"

Casey bit his lip and burst out, "I knew I wasn't going to do it, Zeke, I swear! I don't even know why I thought it."

It was almost not a surprise, and yet it was still a shock, somehow. Zeke didn't really have time to reflect upon it, in any case. With a mouth that felt strangely numb, he said, "You were thinking about...about..."

"About hurting myself," Casey whispered, just as the five-year-old Casey might have confessed to turning the living room wall into a crayola mural.

Because you left me, Zeke. The message was undeniable, inescapable. It haunted the few feet of space between them, then expanded to fill the room.

"I see," Zeke replied. "And did you?"

"No."

"But you almost did."

"I don't know...I don't think I would have but I was thinking...all these terrible things."

Zeke started to speak and faltered. He cleared his throat. "Like what sort of things?"

At something in his tone perhaps, Casey's eyes flew up, the fear palpable. "Zeke..."

"I'd like to know what you were thinking about, Casey."

"It's kind of...all blurry."

"Well, why don't you try to remember?"

"I don't want to."

Zeke stared hard at Casey, but Casey kept his eyes obstinately trained on his lap and didn't speak. He was so different now...so very different and Zeke's heart actually seemed to be aching. It was a pain throughout his middle. He could understand why people would think it was the heart because it was in the core of him and through him, sending pulses and prickles to every extremity. Fuck, he hated feeling this. He hated feeling.

At length, Casey whispered, "That's why...why Sasha doesn't want to l-leave. I've been talking to Yves and... um, I have to go and see her every day now. Monday to Friday. I promised."

In some part of him that was still thinking, Zeke was truly impressed by his own calm. In his best reasonable voice he asked, "What happened to the door?"

"My dad...kicked it down."

For some reason, this started a shaking in Zeke. He folded his arms, trying and failing at the same time to disguise himself. "Are you still thinking about it?"

There was quiet, and Zeke looked up in a half-panic. He saw Casey gazing back at him with eyes that burned with fatigue and stress, and that desperate pallor, and he had never seen anything so determined. "I'm thinking about it," Casey said, "but I'm not going to do it."

Zeke clenched his jaw, afraid of the sound he would make if he opened his mouth right now. He had to breathe through it, slowly sucking air through his nostrils until the stranglehold on his throat eased. When he could trust himself, he informed Casey, "I need a smoke...and you're coming with me. Get your coat."

Just beneath Casey's lashes and not quite visible, something flickered. It might very well have been the ghost of revolt, but Zeke didn't care. He needed to keep Casey in his scopes.

They both collected their coats and went up to the roof. Zeke left his hanging open, needing the chill air on his body and in his face. He wouldn't have been surprised to see steam rising off him. The project of lighting a cigarette did not proceed smoothly; he fumbled with his lighter and nearly dropped it but recovered and, finally, smoke seared all the way to the bottom of his lungs. He could see again. He could see, for example, that Casey was shivering, peering at Zeke with eyes that were absolutely feral. Speaking to him would most likely be pointless but it was, in the end, all that Zeke had.

"Do you remember," he said, "how I told you I would kick your ass if you tried to leave me?"

"No."

"Well, I did. It was at the Jam that time."

"Oh," Casey muttered.

"Is that all you have to say?"

Casey lifted his gaze and spoke directly to Zeke. "What would you like me to say?"

Zeke's hand was still a mess; he could barely get the cigarette to his mouth. He gave up, letting it drop and smoulder between his fingers. "Why don't you tell me why you didn't phone me, for a start?"

Casey drew breath to speak, then mashed his lips together. Finally, he went ahead and spoke. "Your father's wedding was important too — "

"It was nothing," Zeke snapped. "I could have missed it and no fucking loss."

"I thought it — but you said it went okay."

"It was fine. It was a blast. I just can't believe you didn't make an effort to get in touch with me."

"I tried," Casey whispered, with no hint of apology.

"I didn't get a message until this morning."

"When I tried on Friday night it said your cell was out of service." Casey was panting, all of a sudden. "Besides, it's not like you could have done anything."

"I could have come home."

"That wouldn't have helped either of us."

"Well, listen to you," Zeke said, well aware of how bitter he sounded. "So much perspective all of a sudden. Or is that Yves talking?"

"She — she did say — "

"I knew it!" Zeke whirled away from Casey because he was in search of something to hit and retained a dim knowledge that it shouldn't be him. But there was nothing else in range so he could only compact his anger into a hard knot and nurture it, pet and soothe it and hope it continued to respond to his command. "She wanted me to stay away, keep my distance, right?"

"She thought it would be best for both of us..." Casey's voice dropped to a hiss. "...didn't think you wanted to talk to me anyway."

It was no submissive whisper. It was sullen. Defiant, really. Zeke studied Casey again, saw again the eyes burning as with a fever, sunken in a pallid face, all of it pretty wretched to be sure and yet with it was a kind of certainty. And Zeke had been absent at the moment when that look was born. He had missed Casey's transformation — again.

Swiping a wet hand across a wetter forehead, Zeke noticed that his cigarette had gone out. He tossed it on the ground. "Okay," he said. "Let's just get through this story, shall we? So what happened when you called Yves?"

"Why didn't your cell phone work?" Casey pressed.

"I didn't pay my bill. Answer my question."

"Yves told me to come see her in the morning, so I did."

"She didn't want to lock you up."

"No...she got close, though, she never..." Casey swallowed. "She never believed me about the aliens."

"You don't say."

"She thought I was dangerous — and Dr. Chakri talked to her and told her I was being abused."

Zeke got as close as he'd ever been to screaming right in the middle of a conversation. It was pure, blind luck that it didn't happen — prevented by a tentative hand laid on his arm.

"It's...Zeke, it's all okay now."

Clenching his fists, Zeke said, "What do you mean, it's okay?" Suddenly deprived of words, or at least anything that might be spoken, Zeke clawed for Casey, jerking him to within an inch of himself, leaving an entire chasm between them. "You can't leave me," he hissed. It would not be permitted. Zeke Tyler would do anything it took, including reversing the flow of space and time. "I'll go see Dr. Yves," he rasped. "I'll tell her the aliens were real and I won't leave until she believes me."

Beneath Zeke, Casey's eyes went all to liquid.

"I will," Zeke vowed. "When's your next appointment?"

"Tomorrow morning...but you don't have to, Zeke."

"Never mind that, I'm going to set her straight."

"Zeke...she already believes me."

Zeke released Casey, drifting back and not caring that Casey had staggered a bit, having to catch his footing on the unreliable surface of the roof. Zeke wiped a thin sheen of mist or sweat from his face, and his heart thundered with dread of the answer even as he asked the question: "What...? But you just said..."

"She didn't believe me — but then my dad came to a session and told her and she changed her mind."

And then Casey smiled. It was a simple but perfect expression of pleasure of a sort that Zeke didn't recall ever having seen on that face before. He couldn't take his eyes off that mouth, long after the smile had passed. Casey had smiled. All of a sudden Casey had a happy thought and it was about his father, of all people. Somehow in Zeke's absence Frank Connor had turned into his son's hero.

"So you don't have to if you don't want to," Casey continued, as though the smile had never happened. Zeke wondered if it might not be completely blatant how he was having homicidal thoughts about the absent Frank Connor, because Casey was anxious again, nearly babbling. "But Dr. Yves would really like to hear what happened...from both of us." Having failed in his attempt to make Zeke believe that he still had a purpose, Casey resorted to misdirection. He peered up at Zeke, shivered and rubbed his hands. "Can we go downstairs? I'm cold."

Zeke nodded. He thought he might have been cold too, or maybe he was just numb. He couldn't sort out how he'd gotten here, when he was pretty sure he'd been the master of this scene only minutes ago.

When they were both standing in the kitchen, Casey shrugged off his coat. He proceeded to hang it up in the closet, proving to Zeke that he was just not the same person he had been. He could complain, he could argue and he could look after himself. He no longer needed Zeke Tyler for anything.

"Zeke."

"Huh," Zeke grunted, leaning back against a counter.

"Are you going to take your jacket off?"

"Not at the moment, no."

"It — It really would help if...if you talked to her."

"Help me, you mean?"

"Well...I guess." A pause, then Casey added, "Will you come with me tomorrow?"

"But this isn't about helping me, Casey, it's about helping you."

"That's the same thing."

"No, it's not."

"Then...help me by talking to her."

"Oh... but that's not very necessary now, is it?"

Silence. Zeke met Casey's gaze for the first time since coming downstairs and saw that Casey was looking at him hard and strange. It was sort of knowing, it was kind of accusatory and disappointed, and Casey said softly, "You still won't talk about them..."

"There's lots of other stuff to talk about," Zeke returned, not sure why he was persisting with that same old tune he'd been spinning for the past few months. It was stale now, devoid of meaning, and pretty fucking useless altogether.

Casey's chin lifted slightly and his eyelashes moved, and Zeke finally recognized what he was seeing. It was anger, smouldering hot. "You mean like what Roy and Janice did to me?"

Zeke felt his head beginning to separate from his shoulders. There seemed to be nothing that Casey wouldn't say, nothing he would refuse to talk about, apart from some stuff about which Zeke knew absolutely nothing. "Yes," he replied, plunging on despite feeling like he had no grasp on anything, "and no. I'm more thinking about...how you act with me because of it."

"I told her."

"Told her what?"

"I told her all that stuff...that stuff about Roy and Janice. Just like you wanted."

The words were almost funny now: What Zeke wanted him to talk about, as if Zeke actually cared about it anymore. He'd heard all he ever wanted to on that whole business, and with Casey before him the whole idea of making Casey read the confession and then turning it over to Yves...that would have been a madness, a cruelty bordering on criminal and it was now painfully evident that he'd taken off to chase a bunch of lies. Casey had executed his own, complete, self-contained rescue — while Zeke, through his own actions, had ensured that he could have no part in it.

"Really," he choked.

Casey's lashes fluttered a bit more. "I told her on Sunday," Casey said, ever so demure and hesitant and still enraged. "You can ask Sasha if you don't believe me. He was there. He really pushed me to do it, actually...he..."

The voice descended into a low, incoherent mumble in Zeke's ears. Blood filled his head, pulsing so hard he wondered absently if he might be about to stroke out. A trickle of sweat dripped and rolled down his neck, between his shoulder blades and all the way down.

"...and you were right..."

"What's that?" Zeke interrupted, his voice far too loud.

Casey blinked like he was trying to focus. He no longer looked angry, Zeke thought, just tired and determined, like before. "You were right about the way Dr. Yves would think about everything. The aliens and...and what I did to Winona."

Zeke stared.

"She got really close to putting me away," Casey continued. "I think the only reason she didn't was...what my dad told her."

Zeke said nothing, but the pain was actually burning him now. That, and the suspicion that he resented Casey for having a Frank Connor rather than a Jacob Tyler. A fucking Frank Connor.

"So you were right," Casey reiterated.

Laughter exploded from Zeke.

"What?" Casey begged. His eyes were searching Zeke, looking for explanations for this odd turnabout. Hysteria was supposedly Casey Connor's province and now someone else was taking up residence. "Zeke, what's wrong?"

"I wasn't right," Zeke said, still laughing. "It all worked out, didn't it? Now you can talk to her about all the anxiety and everyone is set."

"Zeke."

"Everything is just hunky-dory."

"Zeke...I'm sorry."

"Don't you dare be sorry," Zeke snarled. "It's not your fault that I came hurrying back here because I thought you were in trouble."

"But I was, Zeke," Casey said. "I was in trouble, I am..."

"But you managed pretty fucking well on your own, didn't you?"

Casey gaped at him.

"Never mind me," Zeke said, scrubbing at his face. "Just don't listen...I need to have my own little crisis off on the side somewhere. Don't let that distract you."

"Zeke," Casey whispered, almost whimpered.

"Oh, don't even...let's stick to the main topic here. So what did Yves have to say at the end of it all?"

"Zeke," Casey persisted. "I...I did...need..."

"Shut up," Zeke growled. "I don't want to hear it."

He had an apprehension that he was less than rational right now — but so what was new? And to think that he'd been prepared to feel pride in his various accomplishments. To think that only a day ago he'd been congratulating himself on how he would spare Casey the full brunt of his understanding.

The phone ringing jarred Zeke but he clamped down on it. Meanwhile, Casey jumped rather violently.

"Are you going to get that?" Zeke said to him. Not waiting for an answer, Zeke began searching for the handset. From the volume, it couldn't be far. He found it on the dining room table under the latest issue of Out and About and clipped off an answer: "Hello."

"Zeke...hi!"

With some people you could tell immediately, just from the sound of their voice, if they were drunk. Frank Connor was definitely one of those people.

"Hi, Frank," Zeke said, pinning Casey in place with his eyes, watching to see how he responded. There was a certain brightness, a sudden wish: Daddy, come and rescue me...

"How are you, Zeke?"

Yep. Definitely wasted, and a friendly drunk from the sound of it.

"I'm good, I guess."

"That's great! I'm a little tipsy."

"No way."

"Yeah. I'm just going to crash here tonight...'s all right?"

"I'm sure it's fine."

"Okay! Tell Sasha and Casey for me."

Throughout this exchange, Zeke watched as Casey crept tentatively towards him, until he was only a few feet away, and his hand moved, as though wanting to reach for the phone.

"You bet," Zeke said. "See you tomorrow."

Frank began "Is Casey — ?"

Hanging up on him, Zeke announced, "Your father's spending the night at Charly's."

Casey had gone still, his hand falling to his side. "Oh," he said.

"That's not a problem for you, is it?" Zeke snarled. "Not having Daddy around to break down another door if you need it?" Hearing himself, he shook his head in the start of an apology but then gave up on that along with everything else. He knew he was being a coward as he gulped, "I should unpack now."

"But," Casey protested as Zeke moved towards the hallway, and him.

Fuck if he hadn't fucking miscalculated, and badly, for he was now standing very close to Casey, almost bumping into him. Casey took a quick step back, but not before Zeke caught a whiff of his hair. Oranges. And there was a breathtaking, vertical profile, a heave of emotion in his breathing — which Zeke pursued as though intentions, promises, every product of a thinking mind, were nothing. He closed the distance with the inexorable demand of a fucking zombie, knowing the whole time what he was and what he was doing and still helpless to stop it. He put a hand against Casey's neck and Casey went still, his eyes fixed somewhere on Zeke's chest. Take him, Zeke's body howled. Not Roy not Frank not Sasha not Thomas ...you, yours...show him, take him...

"Z-Zeke."

"Yeah."

"Where's..." Casey stopped with a gulp as Zeke took hold of him by the join between neck and shoulder.

"Hmm?" Zeke said, doing his best to purr. With his thumb, he massaged a tiny patch of skin on the neck, and then, unable to stop himself, he drew a silky line along the jaw, towards the chin. And back again.

There was a hitch in Casey's breath. He stuttered, "Where's...um..."

"Where's um...?" Zeke echoed pleasantly. The bit of Casey he was touching screamed dontstop and more.

"...Sasha."

The name was a dash of cold water. Zeke achieved full stop, wrenching his hand and himself away as he snarled, "We don't need Sasha."

Casey began to tremble, first gently and then completely, soon arriving at a full shudder. His eyes had soon filled up and overflowed, painting an icon of bewildered melodrama. Under the circumstances, Zeke could only appreciate that he was being an utter asshole.

"I..." he started. I'm sorry. Simple words and he'd said them plenty of times before but he couldn't this time. Asshole or not, prick or not, he was just not sorry enough. He just couldn't manage it. "I've been travelling all day. I'm going to get settled and have a quick shower."

The problem with this was, he still had Casey between him and his destination. Rather than try to slip past, Casey backed up as Zeke advanced on him. It was a slapstick scramble between the two of them to get out of each other's way, and Zeke nearly began to laugh again. He was able to restrain it, solely on the grounds that there had to be some dignity for someone amidst all this bullshit.

His nonchalance failed him all over again when he got to his room. His two pieces of luggage were in the middle of it but it was all wrong in here for some reason. After a few seconds of staring, it came to him: Casey had removed all his personal things. They hadn't been a great many, but they had made an undeniable splash in the room. The afghan was gone, there was no clothing strewn about on the floor, no paperbacks and journals to one side of the bed. The CDs and the Discman that would often litter the free space on the computer desk or the dresser were nowhere to be seen. The computer was still there, probably because there was nowhere else to put it.

As Zeke stood there, Casey's voice said, from behind him, "I moved my stuff."

Right then, Zeke heard the noises of Sasha coming in, opening and closing the door to the apartment, making other indefinable sounds to announce his presence. "Guys?" he called.

"Here," Casey said.

"Okay."

There was nothing to do but go into the bedroom. Zeke executed that imperative, then turned to see Casey hanging in the doorway. "So you're sleeping with Sasha full-time, I guess."

Casey shuffled his feet, his skin changing colour. "I can sleep on the couch too."

"That doesn't seem fair."

Casey frowned.

"I'm just saying." Zeke shrugged. His eyes cast about for some distraction, fell on the computer. "What about this?" he said, gesturing.

"The — the computer?"

"Yeah."

"Just thought I'd leave it here," Casey replied.

"Are you sure it's okay for me to use it?" Zeke asked, and there was no way Casey could have missed his bitterness, or the fact that he was turning into a raving lunatic.

"Of course," Casey whispered. "You need it more than me."

There was no point trying to be nasty to the passive-aggressive; Zeke gave up on it. He kicked his bag across the floor and threw his suitcase on the bed, then looked back. He found Casey looking at him, just steadily looking. It was a gaze that was nearly impossible to meet — so perfectly understanding and sad while not really condoning anything. Zeke wondered when Frank had encountered that for the first time and had turned away, unable to confront it. Or Roy, for that matter. Roy must have seen that look and set about systematically destroying Casey so he would never have to face it again.

"What?" Zeke said.

The gaze went on and on.

"What?" Zeke demanded, desperate to get it off him.

Casey said, "You said you would never hate me."

Something was quivering inside Zeke, but he denied it any recognition. "I don't hate you," Zeke shot back.

"You left me."

"I had somewhere to go, remember? We can't be joined at the hip every minute of every day." Using his sleeve, he wiped the sweat from his face. "I did leave but I didn't leave you...and anyway, I'm back, so that should tell you something."

"But you left."

"Yeah, and you know what?" Zeke's throat was so constricted, he had to croak his words. "You lied to me and you hurt me. No one would blame me for leaving."

Just as he finished saying this, Sasha made his appearance in the hallway, clearly determined to enter the fray. It would have been funny if it hadn't been so serious. "Zeke — " he tried.

"I don't want to hear from you," Zeke growled.

"Zeke, just let me — "

"Mind your own fucking business."

"You are my business," Sasha hissed. "Both of you!"

"You have a funny way of showing it. Look, you should be happy. Casey and I were apart for a few days just like you wanted, and we both survived it. And Casey's on the road to recovery and I'd really like to be alone in my room. Is that all right with you?"

"I almost didn't," Casey muttered.

Zeke felt his eyes bulge. "What did you say?"

Just as quickly as those words had slipped out, Casey tried to deny them. He shook his head. "Nothing."

"Un-huh...no. Too fucking late, you said something, what did you mean by it?"

"I said — nothing."

Zeke slammed his fist into the nearest space of wall, sending a spiral of ache all the way down his forearm. "What the fuck did you mean?"

"Guys," Sasha pleaded. "Don't do this."

"Are you trying to say I was responsible?"

"No, Zeke, no, I..." Casey was babbling again, reverting to the version of himself that Zeke knew. "I was wrong to say that. I was trying to hurt you but I...I'm responsible."

"You're fucking right you are. Now get out of my room."

"I'm responsible, Zeke."

"Get out."

Casey backed up, his eyes filling all over again, and ran off down the hallway towards the kitchen. True to form, Sasha followed him, calling his name, and Zeke took advantage of being ignored to scuttle into the bathroom. It felt like a flight, but he didn't much care. It was either that or break down and that would have been too much like an admission of guilt.

For a lack of anything else to do in there, he peeled off his clothing and set the water temperature in the shower to the coldest that he could stand. It shocked his body, startled a few gulps of emotion out of him, but it got him back to thinking. Turning the hot water up a bit, just to the edge of his comfort zone, he began scrubbing himself.

He was not to blame. He knew that, he fucking knew it, and therefore he would not allow himself to feel guilty. He had done the right thing by leaving when he had and he had been entitled to leave. Casey had fucked him over, not once but twice. It wasn't that he couldn't get over that, but he just couldn't believe that the two other people in this apartment didn't appreciate how much he had given and how much they had taken. There was definitely an imbalance going on here and everyone was putting pressure on him to let Casey be the most miserable, the most in need of help...as per usual. Well, not this time. Not this fucking time.

When he opened the door to the hallway there was no sign of anyone except for the strip of light under Sasha's bedroom door. Otherwise the hallway was dark, illuminated only by a spill of light from the kitchen. He thought he heard muffled sounds but couldn't be sure.

Zeke waited a count of four, then went quietly into his room. Rather than unpack as he had declared he would, he laid back on the bed and closed his eyes, acknowledging his exhaustion, the same exhaustion he had been feeling since November, come to think of it. It seemed like he had forgotten how to be any other way.

He allowed himself to drift for a bit and woke with a start. Finding that it was past eleven at night and there was no sound in the apartment, he turned out the light and tried for a full eight hours of blissful unconsciousness but as often happened these days, he was thwarted. It seemed like he lay awake most of the night before finally blinking out. He woke to daylight, from a dream in which Roy was whispering in his ear, telling him things he could no longer remember while the entire time he just really needed to piss and couldn't seem to get a word in to tell Roy to fuck off. He woke up with that same need.

He got up, went into the bathroom and did his business. When he came out, he encountered Casey silent and still, haunting the hallway.

"Fuck!" he gasped, rearing back.

"Sorry," Casey whispered.

"Can't you make a bit of noise or something?"

"Sorry."

It was a sibilant whisper, and Casey drifted closer, sending a waft of oranges Zeke's way. "What are you doing, Casey?" he said, forcing himself not to retreat.

"Nothing."

"Good, because I...I'd like to go back to bed."

From his room, Sasha shouted, "For Christ's sake! Tell him, kitten!"

Zeke rolled his eyes. "Tell me what?"

Casey gathered himself and spoke. "Wanted to say I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"What I said before...last night, I mean. It was really wrong."

"I know it was."

Unexpectedly Sasha was in the hallway and Zeke braced himself for intervention but the man walked right by, straight into the bathroom while muttering something. "...gonna be late...fuck...fuck..."

"I guess we woke him up," Zeke said, attempting a neutral topic.

"No, he's meeting Jerry for breakfast." Casey looked at the floor. "He's getting sick of me."

Zeke sighed. "I highly doubt that, Casey. Okay, I'm going to try to get a few more zees..."

"But — "

"But — ?"

"You were going to come with me to therapy."

"Oh...yeah. When is it?"

"At ten."

"And what time is it?"

"Um... almost nine."

Well, fuck. So much for sleep.

"Okay," Zeke said. "Let me just get ready — "

"Zeke."

He saw eyes gone soft, pleading, importuning...begging. He had never seen anything so beautiful and it filled him with rage because he knew it was all a lie. "What, already?"

"Zeke...I want to tell you..."

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry."

"You already said that.

"I mean... about what I did with Thomas."

Zeke tasted bitterness, a hard chunk of something. "I'm sure you are," he replied, and meant it. After all, he wasn't angry anymore. It was a question of integrity. He would not be a person who came back to their lover out of loneliness or fear and just continued to be angry in secret. That would make him like — like Casey. "I'm going to get dressed."

"Kay," he heard behind him.

It was a bit of a challenge to find a clean pair of jeans but it gave him something to do while he thought about Yves, what he would say to her. He could talk about the fucking aliens if they wanted — it wasn't such a big issue. His boyfriend lying to him, his friend lying to him, his father lying to him, now those were real issues. Maybe they should talk about that. Maybe he should mention how Casey would beg him for reassurance and never, ever believe him, never trust him, think the worst of him and then turn around and show that he was the last person to accuse anyone of being untrustworthy. Maybe they should talk about that.

He yanked on the jeans, buttoning the fly with short, jerky motions, and snorted to himself. Yeah, that was it. He would explain how he'd forgiven Casey but this was still really bothering him and they could only thank him for being honest.

He heard noise outside his room — Sasha, having rushed through his shower, was proving that he had the ability to get ready in ten minutes or less, something that Zeke would not have previously attributed to him. There was brief conversation with Casey, a shuffling, more noise in the hallway, and then Sasha knocked on Zeke's door a lot harder than he needed to.

"Yeah."

Sasha stuck his head in. "I'm going out with Jerry for a while."

"Un-huh," Zeke said, throwing open his suitcase so he could hunt for a clean shirt.

"Are you going with Casey to therapy?"

"Yes."

"Good." Sasha paused, then stepped into the room and all but closed the door. "Listen, you should know something before you go."

Zeke straightened up, trying to imagine what other fuck-piss-shit-awful piece of information had not been shared with him as yet, trying to be ready for it.

"At Casey's last session with Yves, I kinda..." Sasha coughed. "I kinda blackmailed him into talking about that business with Roy and Janice."

Oh, that. Zeke allowed himself to breathe. "Yeah, he said you forced him."

"He told you?" Sasha dropped into the lowest decibel he could make that was still audible. "I know you're probably upset about that but it really had to happen, Zeke. That stuff is the reason why he's been in such rough shape, I'm sure of it. He had to talk about it and I thought...for once you shouldn't have to be the bad guy."

Zeke stared at Sasha, absolutely bereft of a reply.

"I wanted you to know...just in case you thought you had to do that today." It looked for an instant as though Sasha might say something else, then concluded in a normal volume, "I'm sorry Zeke but I really have to go, I'm late... I'll see you later. I'm not working tonight."

"Yeah," Zeke managed. "Sure."

"We'll talk, okay?"

Zeke grabbed a red t-shirt and pulled it over his head. "Whatever," he said, his voice muffled. When he could look, he saw that Sasha was gone.

After a trip to the bathroom to brush his teeth, he went to the kitchen, where he found Casey dressed, leaning against the sink and eating a bowl of cereal. He looked much better than he had last night, Zeke noticed now. A bit thin and pale still, but almost healthy in some indefinable way. Zeke poured a bowl of cereal for himself and was on his way to get milk for it when suddenly he had turned to face Casey and a question burst out of him before he could stop it or even know that he was gong to ask.

"Where did it happen?"

Casey looked up from his cereal bowl. "What?"

"Where did you and...Thomas...where did it happen?"

"In his car," Casey answered, with lowered eyes. He twisted around to put his empty bowl in the sink, running some water in it. His entire demeanour claimed innocence and Zeke wanted to grab him, tear off his clothes, make him moan and lose that coy little blush. Just like Thomas must have done, crushing Casey under his weight in a back seat.

"When?"

Casey turned slowly. "Wha...?"

"Am I asking complicated questions? When did it happen?"

"At — Th — Thanksgiving," Casey stuttered.

"You mean that time when you ran out...figuring I was having that inevitable fuck fest with Winona."

Casey suddenly raised his eyes and locked them on Zeke, just as he had done the night before.

"What now?" Zeke growled. "Why are you looking at me?"

Casey answered slowly. "I ran out on Thanksgiving because I thought you and Winona were together and next you'd want me to join you. Stupid, huh?"

Zeke lost the will to continue the contest; he looked down, away while his mind filled with ugly, remembered words: Roy said, 'touch him, touch him'...his lips were almost blue and Roy was all over he had his hands all over him...inside him...and I just...she touched him too, she had her hands on him and it turned her on...I just watched...she touched him too... I just watched...I got her to leave and then I fucked him so good, so sweet I fucked him with his face in the pillow... he wanted it...never said no...

Zeke whispered, "I can't believe that you would think I could do that to you."

"Yeah, I'm crazy," Casey returned dryly. "I get it."

"No...that's not what I meant."

"I think it was. I think... The whole point was to punish me, wasn't it? To remind me I'm nuts and fucked up and no good?"

"Well, you'd be wrong."

"I'm leaving."

Zeke's stomach fell through the floor. "What?"

"Yves," Casey explained, his eyes as hard as those particular orbs could ever get. "Have to go to therapy."

"I'm coming..."

"No, you're not."

"I'm supposed to go with you."

"I don't care."

Zeke knew Casey was well within his rights at this moment, but it didn't matter. "But...are you..."

"I'm fine. I can go by myself."

Zeke watched as Casey got ready to go, and his brain scrabbled for some argument as to why he should be going along too. He couldn't think of one, not if Casey said he wasn't welcome. If he were Sasha he would just go anyway, but then, Sasha had done that so he didn't have to. There was really nothing for him to do, nothing to add or contribute. He wasn't needed.

Not waiting until Casey had gone, Zeke went into his bedroom, where he still had a lot of unpacking to do. The apartment door slammed. His gut quivered, just for a moment.

He flipped open his hockey bag and started removing things, none too gently. All the gifts from Christmas came out, one after another until he got to the CD Casey had made, the one he still hadn't heard. Staring down at the black cover, he had to deal with the urge to hurl the thing across the room. He should really make up his mind to listen to this thing or not. A person had gone to the trouble of making it for him, after all. A person had things to say...a person wanted to be understood even if they were impossible and maddening and fascinating and he shouldn't want to hurt them, he shouldn't be so angry, he shouldn't if he had forgiven if he had forgiven —

He collapsed face-down on the bed and stared at the expanse of pillowcase immediately under his eye. Time passed, and he thought of nothing. He simply had no thoughts.

The phone rang. Zeke groaned, lifting his head so his eye caught the clock. It was 10:30. For another ring he assumed that he was going to let the machine get it — then he knew he wasn't and bolted up to find it, spurred by an intuitive knowledge. Snatching up the handset, he gasped into it, "Casey?"

"No, this is Dr. Helen Yves. Is this Zeke?"

"Yes."

"I was wondering if Casey was going to show up for his appointment."

Something slammed Zeke, hurtling him way beyond panic. "He isn't there?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Oh, shit...fuck..."

"Should I be concerned?"

"We had an argument just before he left. Fuck."

"Do you have any idea where he might be?"

"Not really. I need to go out and look, he might be somewhere in the neighbourhood."

"All right. And Zeke...?"

"Yes?"

"Casey has signed a no-harm agreement with me. If he is all right, and I hope he is, this means he's violated it."

"And what does that mean?"

"The agreement was an alternative to the hospital, Zeke."

"But he's...he's....fuck, I can't think. I need to go."

"All right. Please let me know when you find him."

As Zeke hung up, he realized how grateful he was that she hadn't said if.

 

Only yesterday, Casey had been close to happy. Sasha and Jerry had returned from their drive mid-afternoon to receive the news that Zeke was coming home and of course, Sasha's reaction had been an immediate orgy of hugging and expressions of relief. He had suggested that Casey might want to "smooth the transition" by moving his things from the room he and Zeke had been sharing, and it had seemed like a good idea at the time. It hadn't even taken half an hour...but then there had been hours and hours in which to think and to gradually go insane. Sasha had endured Casey's occasional fits of hyperventilation for a while, and then he got impatient. He had sighed, "For Christ's sake, kitten. It's going to be fine."

And then he'd browbeaten Casey into helping him decide what they should have for supper and going out to the market with him. Casey had hoped-thought-hoped it would be closed, seeing as it was New Year's Day, but Sasha had insisted it would be open and Sasha had been right. Then Casey had been required to help with "prepping", which meant he did a lot of measuring and chopping while Chef Sasha consulted with himself and stood importantly over a pan. Casey had been sure that he couldn't eat any of their collaborative product and keep it down. Again, Sasha said otherwise, and again, Sasha was right. And when, near nine o'clock, Zeke had phoned from the airport and Casey was certain that his brain was going to explode, it had been Sasha who calmed him, who convinced him that he could present himself at the door even if he had to hide behind him. And just before Zeke walked in, Sasha had told him again, "It'll be all right, kitten. It'll be fine."

But Sasha couldn't have been more wrong, because it was not all right, it was not fucking fine — not last night, not even after Sasha exerting all his talents at forcing it to be all right. It was still a huge fucking mess, he and Zeke couldn't talk to each other without it all going wrong and Sasha could hold and cuddle and calm him all night, talk him into an apology but it still didn't work so it was not all right — not right this morning either, and so fuck Zeke, fuck him and fuck Roy and fuck Sasha for leaving him and fuck his father too while he was at it but especially fuck Zeke. If Zeke wanted to fuck him, fine, if he wanted to hate him, fine, he should just do something, pick one not keep makingthepointoverandoverlikeCaseydidn'tknowhewascrazylikehedidn'tknow hewasafuckingwhore —

Casey put his foot down and yanked it back onto the curb when someone's car horn sounded hard and long. He put his hands into his jacket pockets and buried his chin in his scarf, shivering. There was something about the damp in this city that made him feel more miserable than he would have in the freezing temperatures back in Ohio. Or maybe he was just miserable and that was that.

If he and Zeke could have just fucked. If they could have fucked, everything would have been okay. Zeke wouldn't be so angry and he wouldn't have said those things or looked at Casey in that way that Casey didn't really want to think about, like he hated him. Maybe Zeke said no more fucking but Zeke still needed what he needed, just like Casey. Casey understood lots of things about Zeke, like he understood there was a part of Zeke that didn't want to justify itself, that needed to just possess and own a person...because it made him feel good and he would like to just leave it at that, thank you. Zeke just didn't like anyone touching his stuff but Casey couldn't fix it because they couldn't fuck, because Casey knew he would die if anyone laid an intimate finger on him, even Zeke. Especially Zeke. He didn't want that glide of hands or the aroma of cigarettes, the ashtray taste that was really quite disgusting if you thought about it and he knew it was crazy to wish they could have fucked because he didn't want to except he did and of course Zeke was right, of course he was crazy —

— and it was crazy to be lurching along the sidewalk, wet mist on his face and he wasn't even looking where he was going, he had no vision and no real idea of where he was headed other than to talk to Yves, he really wanted to be in her office now although he wasn't sure exactly what it was he wanted to say.

Just like it was crazy to run headlong into someone, to be totally at fault for nearly knocking them over and still rear back and scream at them, but that was what he did. "Don't you fucking touch me!"

The middle-aged woman he'd run into leapt back like he was some dangerous freak... just another item on a mounting list of incidents that totalled up to Casey Needs to Go Somewhere He Can't Hurt Anyone Else.

"Oh," he whispered. "I... didn't..."

The woman felt her lip. "It's okay," she replied, her eyes wary.

He'd hurt her but she didn't want to say and he was a fucking maniac. "S- sorry," he choked, holding out an apologetic hand and dropping it when she hurried on.

So now he was standing absolutely still in the middle of the sidewalk with nothing, just the anger and the shell of himself that was left standing here halfway between home and Dr. Yves, about to be late. Somewhere off in the distance there was a beeping noise and the flow of traffic, conversations, footsteps, all swirling around him. There was a rawness to the cool air that he was pulling into his lungs, his jacket was open and he was shivering. It was like suddenly and for the first time he was standing in an urban wilderness, completely exposed. It was terrifying.

"Mr. Casey!"

He jumped and turned around, squinting at the figure that was speaking to him. "Thomas?"

"I've been trying, trying to get your attention for five whole minutes you know, I've been beeping and honking at you but you wouldn't listen, you're just standing there like a stone so I had to jump out!"

Even from ten feet away Thomas looked incredibly tired, like he had forgotten what sleep was but he was still talking, his mouth moving too fast and far from making complete sense. Casey stared, feeling unqualified to interject or even to take in the presence of his friend. Thomas was wearing clothing that Casey recognized, but it was appallingly rumpled, and torn. His entire appearance was appalling, in fact.

" — so do you want to get in?"

"Um...what?"

"I'm blocking traffic, Mr. Casey!"

Thomas gestured as though to direct Casey towards something and added a bunch of frantic arm motions but never got close enough to touch him or even intimated that he might want to. It made it possible for Casey to take few steps in his direction. Thomas might look like a derelict, but he had never hurt Casey. Unless you counted the part where he advised him to talk about the aliens...but so had Sasha, and whatever fallout had occurred had more to do with Casey being fucked up than the advice itself —

"Thomas," Casey said, feeling his eyes burn.

"What, Treasure, what?" Thomas looked over his shoulder, not at Casey but at the street.

"You understand... " me "...don't you?"

"Oh, yes, yes...Treasure, come now, we must go."

"Go where?" Casey asked, obligingly taking a few steps, and then a few more when Thomas kept widening the distance between the two of them.

"To my car, obviously!" Thomas snapped, suddenly adopting a more aggressive tone. "Didn't you hear me a minute ago?"

"I'm sorry," Casey mumbled.

"No, never mind." Still far from patient, Thomas insisted, "Just come with me."

"Come...where?"

"In my car!"

"But Thomas..." Casey didn't quite know how to say that a person who looked as derelict as Thomas and whom reportedly had been homeless — that this person couldn't have a car. "You don't...I mean..."

"It's right here, Treasure!" Thomas ran around to the driver's side of a red sedan that Casey had been standing next to and hadn't even looked at. It was sitting to the far right of four lanes, on a main artery, in a no parking zone with traffic backed up behind it. Thomas opened the driver's side door in complete disregard of passing cars and shouted across the hood, "Right here!" He bent as though he would get in and then popped up to address Casey where he was still standing on the sidewalk. "Well? Aren't you getting in?"

"Thomas, this isn't your car."

"But of course it is!" Thomas smacked his hand down on the roof, while his eyes nearly glowed with frantic sincerity. "You don't believe me, is that what you're saying? You want to hurt my feelings? Just get in the car and I'll explain."

"I have an appointment..."

"Mr. Casey..." Thomas shook his head, visibly restraining himself. "You are making me very sad. Get in, I'll give you a ride."

"But it's not very far," Casey said. As always, he was torn between fear and trust in Thomas' presence. He had never really felt endangered even though Thomas was very unusual for a human being, even a sick one. Even for a sick alien. And...he did want to talk to Thomas. He had been wanting to talk to him for a long time, it seemed.

"Are you afraid your Tower Man will find out?" Thomas shouted. Strangers stopped and looked, and Casey half-cringed and yet almost wanted to grin at this man- alien's obstinate...Thomas-ness. Maybe he liked the way that Thomas didn't seem to give a shit about the rest of the world. Maybe Casey just couldn't help liking him. That was it — he liked Thomas and Zeke could go to hell too. Thomas might be down and out but he was Casey's friend.

"Maybe...just for a minute."

"Hop in, hop in! The meter is running the clock is ticking as it were...ticking as it were."

Casey opened the passenger side door and got in. The interior of the car was pure devastation, strewn with papers and crushed food wrappers, matted with dirt and dust. Before Casey could wonder out loud about the state of things, Thomas took off like a Indianapolis hopeful.

"Wait — " Casey protested.

The car was weaving dangerously, Thomas just barely evading everything in his path while he beat a staccato rhythm on the steering wheel with both hands. The practical business of avoiding collision seemed irrelevant to him.

"Thomas!" Casey said, and again without daring to take his eyes off the road, because someone had to be looking at it. "Thomas!"

"What!" Thomas did not pause in his drumming. He did feel sufficiently unoccupied to turn his head and stare directly at Casey. "Are you afraid, Treasure? Don't worry, we're invinc — "

"Watch — !" Casey cried. It might not be rush hour but there were still plenty of people out and about, more than enough to run into. "Watch the road!"

"Oh, there's no one in my way, Treasure. You are a very tense boy, you know."

"I have reason!"

"I'm sure you have lots."

"Someone has to — shit!" Casey hunched and squeezed his eyes shut as Thomas made a left turn right in front of an oncoming SUV. The driver of the SUV was forced to squeal to a stop and lay on the horn and for several white-hot flashes of time Casey could only think of how it would devastate Sasha to be forced to identify his mangled body. But then, somehow, he was still alive. Opening his eyes, he barked, "Pull over."

"What's that, Mr. Cas — "

"Pull over, pull over!"

"But why?"

"I didn't survive an alien invasion to be killed by this. Pull over."

"We can talk and drive, Treasure, but the thing is gotta keep moving, people to see, places to be and all that — "

"Thomas, please."

"Okay, Treasure. For you." Thomas flashed an utterly devastating grin.

Casey did not remove his clutch from the door handle until they had come to a complete stop in the right lane. He just breathed, while Thomas sat beside him — sat but was neither quiet nor still. He seemed unable to stop moving.

"Better now?" he asked, dancing in his seat.

"Yeah."

"Am I an alien, Mr. Casey?"

Casey's head turned involuntarily while his limbs made suggestions of flailing, and running.

"You said you survived aliens that must be what you're afraid of, huh...you said am I one of ‘them'. You are always a bit afraid of me, is it because I am black?"

"No," Casey gulped. "No."

"But you think I am strange and unusual."

"Aren't you?"

Thomas appeared to think it over. "Maybe," he concluded. "Why did you get in my car?"

"I needed to talk to you." A thought of Yves fluttered in the back of Casey's brain. She would be waiting for him. "I don't have a lot of time here," he said, attempting a business-like tone.

"Un-huh."

"I wanted to say good-bye and...and..."

"Yes, Mr. Casey."

"... let me stammer, okay? I like you and I'm glad you're my friend even if I'm not sure what you are...but I've wrecked things with Zeke...and I don't know why you talked to him but you didn't have to do that!"

Thomas said nothing.

"I'd say don't do it again but it doesn't matter now...oh, fuck it. Don't do that again."

"Don't do what?"

"Don't — you know what. You know."

"Yes. Don't get excited, Treasure, I was teasing. I know what I did."

"And you're sorry."

"Yes."

"And you're not going to do it again."

"Absolutely not."

It occurred to Casey that he was being mocked right now, or at least not taken very seriously, but he didn't have time to take issue with it. "Okay, fine. I've gotta go."

A hand fell on his arm suddenly. "Don't be rushing, Treasure."

"But I have an appointment, I told you...I"m already late and she's going to call the cops on me."

"Why ever would she do that?"

"Because I'm sick and I belong in a hospital."

Thomas snorted. His eyes went a little bit mean as he regarded Casey. "You don't belong in a hospital, Treasure, most certainly, and you know, I think it's time you stopped playing at being crazy."

"Playing," Casey echoed. His gut burned with hurt and alarm and anger, all at once.

"You have all sorts of help and advantages — " Thomas began, and broke off so he could override Casey's instinctive protest. "Yes, you do! You will think me cruel now and maybe I am, but I tire of this! You are not mad, Mr. Casey, you have no idea what real sickness is!"

"I almost tried to kill myself," Casey argued, feeling close to tears unexpectedly. Thomas was the last person he would have expected to not believe him —

"Oh, haven't we all. Go back to mama if you can't handle it out here in the world, little rich boy."

"I'm not rich and I'm getting out — "

As Casey reached for the door handle, the car lurched into motion and the power lock on Casey door was activated. This was not happening, Thomas was not his enemy — he scrabbled for the button on his side and was successful in unlocking the door. But it was already too late. They were moving at a relatively high velocity, enough that he was afraid to jump out.

"Thomas," he said. It came like some sort of squeak instead of the manly protest he'd been aiming for.

"I have an appointment in Portland, remember how I always wanted you to come with me?"

"Told you... I couldn't."

"Don't be silly, of course you can."

"No, I can't!" Casey shouted.

"You will simply explain to your doctor that you were kidnapped."

"I have been kidnapped..."

"No, no, no. Not really, and anyway, you know I would never hurt you, Mr. Casey."

"You're hurting me now."

"By making you late? You really must be less tense, Treasure. I hear yoga is very effective...but this way we will have more time to talk and you can have the pleasure of revenge against Zeke."

"What makes you think I want to..." Thinking of Zeke was a mistake. Casey slunk and cringed into his seat and gulped, "Don't want revenge."

"I saw you being angry before, Treasure." The car rocketed past the street they should have turned on to get to Yves' office building. Casey almost tried to say something — and gave up. "Oh, yes, I can tell when you're angry, you're very cute about it — no, I shouldn't say cute, not cute. You're ferocious with your claws and teeth out like you have no idea anyone is bigger than you and you must not be afraid of anger. Anger is a natural product of the human psyche, anger and aggression, from day one we are guaranteed to feel them because of ambivalence, you know that term, don't you? Of course, so ambivalence because you can't always feel good and then you have emotions that some call dark or bad but they're not, they're just natural. You understand?"

"Not really, no," Casey muttered.

He was fucked. He was going to be strapped down in some loony bin by the end of the day.

"You know, I can get very tired of this attitude very quickly. You whine and you mope and you're always shaking but what do you really have to be afraid of? Huh?"

"Strange men kidnapping me, for one," Casey shot back.

"I'm not strange."

"Yes, you are."

"Okay, I'm strange, but so are you. You never need to be afraid of strangers, Treasure, because you're the strangest. You have nothing to fear from the rest of us."

Casey was silent, leaning his head against the window. He didn't really know were he was — he didn't know much except that they were negotiating the streets of Seattle, getting close to an exit now which meant that soon they would be on the highway, headed towards a whole other city. After all this time and so much struggle, to have it end this way...it was stupid, perhaps even poetically tragic since he'd been so sure all along where he'd end up, just dead wrong about how he got there. There had to be some lesson about this, and he'd have plenty of time to dwell on it, unless they took his mind too. Which they probably would and there would be nothing left of him so She would have her way in the end.

"...'m ready..." he muttered. He was so tired of fighting her, he should have known she would win anyway. "...ready this time...for sure."

"What's that?" Thomas said.

"Nothing."

"You said something.'"

"Didn't."

"Oh, Treasure. You can tell me, can't you?"

Casey sighed. Since he was on this road now and there was no way to stop, there was nothing much to lose. He said, "The aliens had a queen."

"Naturally," Thomas replied, not missing a beat. "And?"

"And...I killed her, and sometimes I'm sure that she wants revenge, that she's back...and sometimes I think she just wants me to...take her place." It was insane but true, even hurtling down the highway as they were now, at seventy miles an hour or so: Casey could tell Thomas the things he would never tell anyone else. He stared out at the chaos of cars with their running lights just punctuating the fog and he whispered, "She's inside me."

"How?"

"With her...things...and I think she's still there sometimes. I think...I'm all that's left of her."

Thomas didn't speak for several seconds. Casey wondered if, after all, there actually were limits to what he could comprehend. "You asked," Casey said, shrugging and keeping his gaze on his window.

"Mr. Casey."

"What?"

"You must not feel so much guilt about what you did to her."

Casey turned to look over at Thomas, and at the same time he shrunk into himself, made himself small. "I don't know what you mean."

"It is time for you to be all right. It's all right to be all right, you know. You deserve it."

"I don't deserve anything," Casey said, hardly knowing what he meant by it.

"There you go again being all melodramatic. I'm going to have to ask you stop that."

"Or what?"

"Or nothing!" Thomas laughed briefly, and then an exaggerated frown flickered across his handsome features. "Or nothing! I'll have you home well before supper. Just sit back and relax and enjoy the ride, Treasure."

Casey couldn't relax but he was practiced enough at ignoring an unpleasant reality. Rather than think about what his friends, his lover, his doctor would be thinking about him soon, if not already, he surveyed the expanse of the front seat. It was, in his mother's terminology, a sty. It didn't seem like Thomas at all, even if Thomas had been less than organized of late. "Thomas...where did you get this car?"

"I told you, it's mine."

"It's not the one you had before."

"Well, duh, as they say. Since we are both admitting things, I will admit this to you, Treasure, but only you. I've been having a little trouble financially so they took my car but I called my father, you remember my father the Anglican minister, I called him and after I explained how I'm working on this new business idea, he sent me the money immediately so I could get something to get around in. Get around in, that's a funny bit of words, don't you think? Get around in...get around in...and it's a good thing to get around in because there's this guy to see... you're coming with me right?"

Casey stared at Thomas, who seemed to have forgotten that only minutes ago he'd refused to let Casey out of the car. "No," he said, wanting to see what would happen.

Thomas just laughed. "You're so funny, Treasure. Funny, funny."

"Yeah," Casey sighed. "I'm a riot."

"Are you fretting about your doctor, Treasure? Don't fret, I'm sure you could have her eating out of the palm of your hand if you wanted."

Casey gave him a look. "Were you really a doctor, Thomas?"

"A psychoanalyst, not a doctor, Treasure..." Thomas was quiet for a moment. "What did you say?"

"I asked if you were a doctor."

"Oh, right. Why, was there something you wanted to ask me?"

"Is that why you seem to understand me?"

"I don't know that I do understand you, but we have a connection, I think — hey, what do you say to a little you and me in the back seat?"

"Wh-what?" Casey stammered.

"You were attracted to me before, were you not? I'm thinking now I was stupid to turn you down because I'll tell you something, Mr. Casey, you have some serious sex magic about you. I don't know what it is, but it's hot and beautiful and I'd love to get it on with you, as they say — "

"Stop," Casey strangled. "Stop, please."

Thomas was again staring at Casey, in utter disdain for the road before them. "You can't be thinking that I would do something to hurt you — or anyone else, for that matter — matter that you didn't want."

"Yes," Casey said quickly. "I know that."

In a flash, the sparkling charmer was back. "So what do you say?"

"To what?"

"A bit of a fuck."

It was out of the question, of course, but Casey couldn't believe the power emanating from this man when he wanted, power that had to be quite a lot more effective than anything he possessed. And suppose that they did fuck? It wasn't like Zeke could think any worse of him. If Zeke wasn't repulsed and hating him he would never have looked at Casey like he hated him and said those horrible, hateful things — god, not even an hour ago. It would serve him right if he and Thomas did what Zeke had in his mind —

"You are thinking about Zeke," Thomas claimed.

"What makes you think that?"

"Because if you are thinking it's about Zeke, about how to get him back...or maybe how to get back at him, yes?"

Tears grew thick in Casey's eyes, obscuring sight. "I don't know."

"I do, and I should not want to be a part of such a thing." Thomas threw his head back and laughed. "But I do. I will help you with revenge if you wish, my Treasure." Even as he spoke, Thomas made a sudden lane change, moving to the right and almost causing a collision. Someone laid on their horn and nearly went off the road. Thomas only laughed louder and hollered, "Eat my dirt, dick-face!

Casey's heart raced in a way that he hadn't felt for a long time — with the fear of actual, physical harm rather than dread of the possibility of harm. There was something cleansing about it. "Thomas!" he gasped.

"What, what — what?"

"Let me drive."

"You can drive?"

"I can drive a lot better than you."

"Why, Treasure, I believe I'm insulted." Without warning, Thomas was rocking and pitter-pattering again, and now he started singing. "God save the glor-r-r- ious queen, long live our noh-ble queen..."

"Thomas."

"...send her victoh-ree-ous..."

"Thomas."

"Hap-pee and....what, Treasure, what?"

"I want to drive."

"And I want to go to Portland — "

"Fuck!" Casey screamed as they slipped between two vehicles into a space that seemed barely able to fit a compact, let alone a sedan. "I'll drive to fucking Portland, just pull over!"

Thomas stopped jittering long enough to shrug.

They were on the shoulder much too quickly, and probably illegally, but Casey didn't care. Thomas turned off the engine and dangled the keys in front of Casey's eyes — two, identical car keys only, nothing else, attached to a paper tag. "Just to be sure you don't take off without me." He got out and walked around the front of the car while Casey slid over into the left seat. The passenger-side door shut, and Thomas held up the keys. With shaking hands, Casey reached for them.

Thomas snatched them away. "Gotcha!"

Something detached itself from Casey and he thought he screamed "Give me the fucking keys!" All he was really sure of was that when it cleared, he was holding them and Thomas had settled back on the passenger side of the car, looking sardonic.

Casey started the engine, working very hard not to think about the fact that this was only the third time he'd driven anything, and he wasn't, strictly speaking, a legal driver. But he had a task here, which was to stay alive. Easing into the right lane, he took the car up to a velocity he felt he could handle and decided not to be concerned about the slight fog or the slick covering of moisture on the road. He would just watch where he was going and not go too fast.

"It's a good good good thing there's no minimum speed here," Thomas remarked whilst resuming his bebopping next to Casey.

"Shut up."

"Yessir." Thomas saluted Casey with a warm, friendly grin, and Casey felt terrible about screaming at him. Or maybe he just felt terrible, period. His shoulders and neck were already far too cramped for comfort. Cars kept climbing up on his back bumper until they had an opportunity to pass and then would whizz by the sedan, generally giving Casey the impression that he was offending them.

"Just take it easy, take it easy," Thomas sang. He was far from taking his own advice, however. Casey did not miss the increased agitation, nor the occasional sideways looks he was receiving. They were suspicious, just short of hostile.

"God save the queen...the queen...and the right noble queen...queen queen queen queen..."

Casey's eye fell upon the gas meter. The needle was virtually on empty, and he had hope, unexpectedly. They had not yet left the city limits — perhaps the journey would end here. He didn't think that Thomas would actually resort to physical tactics to keep him from just walking away from their little excursion. "Thomas — " he blurted.

"Save...save...save...the queeeen..."

"Thomas."

"Yessir."

"You're almost out of gas."

"Liarliarpantsonfire."

"I am not — see for yourself."

Thomas leaned over, very unnecessarily and cruelly seizing Casey's hair as he did. It was a deliberate act of force, with no other purpose but to remind Casey that he was bigger and stronger. "Stop — stop it!" Casey yelled, nearly hitting himself in the head in his effort to drive Thomas off, barely remembering to keep one hand on the wheel. The contact ended abruptly, and only then did Casey notice that he was halfway into the other lane. Cold terror sweat prickled all over his body at the realization that they could have died just now.

He so wanted to go home.

"Well, that was quite a display, wasn't it?" Thomas observed, sounding odd Casey thought — until he understood that Thomas merely sounded like his original self, the person who had been calm and wise and seemed to understand everything. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Casey. It's always been very important to me that I not hurt you, but I see that I have."

He fell silent and still, so still that Casey wondered if he was holding his breath. Glancing over, he saw that Thomas' shoulders were slumped.

"Can I stop for gas?"

"Yes. By all means, yes."

It was all Thomas had to say. Casey glanced over at him several times and it suddenly struck him that Thomas' lack of animation was all too familiar. It was a replica of himself. It could have been him just yesterday, in fact, and it had been a whole fuck of a lot of his life for months now, if he was honest about it.

A terrible feeling possessed him. Reflecting upon it, he decided that it was shame, and shame of a sort that was new or at least underused. It was the comprehension of just how painful and miserable it must have been for Zeke and Sasha to deal with him when he was deadened and barely speaking to anyone — like Thomas was right now — trailing around letting everyone serve him and still resenting them for it.

He had seen all sorts of signs and advertisements for gas along the way, so it wasn't more than a few minutes before he found an exit for a place called, strangely enough, Casey's General Store. He maneuvered the car into a position next to a pump, whereupon Thomas bestirred himself and said in a monotone, "The tank's on your side."

This was just one of the many things Casey had never bothered to wonder about. He had to turn the sedan around in the somewhat limited space of the parking lot, and it was embarrassing. There were quite a few people and cars around, all of them certainly thinking he was an idiot who didn't know how to drive — but finally settled in next to a pump, Casey put the car in park and turned the engine off. He was trembling slightly as he turned to his companion and said, "Thomas."

There was no answer.

"Thomas," he said again.

The man blinked and looked at him. "Yes, Mr. Casey," he said clearly.

"Thomas...I think you're beautiful..."

"But I am not, Treasure."

"...and I think you know a lot more than I do about a lot of things. Like being sick. You know a lot about it — like what it's called and why it makes you act the way you do. You know what to do about it, don't you? Please tell me you do, Thomas, because you're right about me. I don't really know sickness. I don't know what to do."

Thomas studied him at some length, without much expression. Casey waited and finally was rewarded with speech.

"Mr. Casey, I apologize with all my heart for the way that I grabbed you."

"It's okay — you didn't really hurt me. Just startled me."

"But I have hurt you. And I apologize for it. I must beg you to accept my apology and not protest. Just say you accept."

"I — it's okay, Thomas."

Thomas raised a brow while producing a wistful smile.

"Ah — apology accepted," Casey faltered.

"Thank you."

"But what about...?"

"What about my being sick? I do appreciate your concern, Mr. Casey. I am very appreciative."

"But Thomas — "

"Please, Mr. Casey. You were not wrong to speak as you did. You did it out of concern for me, but you should not be concerned for me. I may not seem quite right, I may seem sick but I don't like that word and I know that this has a purpose. I feel it come all over my body sometimes, like I'm staring right at the divine. It makes all the nerves stand up and I feel like I could do absolutely anything, it's such a wonderful feeling...I really miss it right now but I know it will come back. Do you understand?"

"No," Casey whispered.

Thomas gazed straight out the windshield and mumbled something.

"What?"

"Nothing, Mr. Casey." Thomas looked at him and smiled again, with a far- too- knowing quality. "You will not leave me, will you?"

"H-huh?"

"When we get out of this car. Will you stay with me?"

Well, he'd gone this far. Things couldn't get a whole heck of a lot worse if he stuck it out — and besides, Thomas was his friend, whatever Zeke might think. Thomas had listened to him and understood him like no one else had, and Thomas, of all people, had given him the compelling logic with which to defy Zeke about the aliens. He owed Thomas, alien or no. Perhaps if he stayed with him, he could figure out a way to help him.

"Yes," he said. "I'll go with you Portland."

Thomas smiled again, but again it was sad. "Mr. Casey, you are a true friend. Why don't you fill up the tank and I'll go in and pay?"

"Um..." He had never put gas in a car, but then again, how hard could it be? It would probably make Thomas feel a little safer this way, not to mention that he had no money. He hadn't even brought his wallet, he'd been so worked up when he left the apartment. "Okay."

He began to twist to get out of the car but a hand clapped down on his shoulder stopped him. It was a warm, meaty grip, communicating nothing but friendship and this time Casey endured it.

"I want you to know this, Mr. Casey," Thomas said, very solemn. "You are a very powerful creature."

"Um..."

"I mean it. You are powerful and you are all right. Don't forget it. You have nothing to fear from the likes of us."

"I don't feel all right," Casey said.

Thomas nodded. "I know. I must think of a way to show you." He finally removed his hand, opening his door. "Would you like anything from the store?"

Casey noticed how dry his throat was. "A soda, please...something without caffeine."

"One soda," Thomas said agreeably. "No caffeine."

While Thomas made his long-legged way across the lot, Casey addressed himself to the problem of putting gas in the car. It turned out that the management had very kindly left full instructions. He selected "pay inside", then lifted the nozzle for the regular gas and flicked up the latch. At that point he had to struggle with the gas cap for a bit, having not removed it before he started. He made a mental note of that for next time. Finally, it was with some disbelief that he saw the numbers on the pump begin to climb, after having placed the nozzle in the pipe and depressed the button. It actually worked.

His next, overriding worry was that the gas would overflow, so he watched it carefully. To his relief, it tried to shut itself off, presumably a warning the tank was full. He tapped the nozzle on the edge of the pipe's throat to catch any drips, pulled the latch into the off position and resettled the nozzle in its little home. The final step was replacing the gas cap and closing the cover.

Casey mopped his brow with a feeling of accomplishment. He supposed it had been obvious to anyone who was watching that it had been his first time. He looked around to see if anyone had been watching and was gratified to see no pointed fingers or smirks.

The display on the pump said he owed forty-eight dollars. Casey had had no idea that gas was so expensive. He'd heard his father and mother commiserating about it over the years, and had paid no attention. As for Zeke, he never seemed to notice the cost of anything.

Thomas came through the door from the store, holding what appeared to be a burrito or wrap of some sort, and two sodas in plastic bottles. As he eye travelled past Thomas, Casey saw the payphone affixed to the exterior of the building and wondered what Thomas would think about him calling home and if he might not loan Casey some quarters, seeing that he'd agreed to go to Portland with him. He dreaded talking to Zeke but perhaps his dad would be home by now, and his dad could call Yves and let her know that he was okay.

"Thomas," he said when his friend was in range. "That was my first time pumping gas."

"Really." Thomas didn't sound much interested. He glanced over his shoulder. "Let's get going."

"But I was thinking that maybe I should — "

"Hey!"

The shout came from the building, and Casey reflexively looked over. There was a tall, pear-shaped man in a clerk's apron. "You didn't pay for that!" he shouted. "Stop!"

It didn't immediately occur to Casey that the man was talking to them, not until Thomas opened the passenger side door and threw the food and drinks inside, ordering, "Get in the car!"

"Wh-what — " Casey stammered. The clerk was approaching at rapid speed.

Thomas growled, "Get in the car now!"

Casey stared at him and said the only words that came to him. "You didn't have any money?"

"Get in the damned car!"

"No," Casey refused, without giving it a moment's thought. In his world, you didn't disobey the authorities, even if they wore an apron and had only a citizen's powers of arrest. This guy was well within his rights to insist on payment.

With a feral snarl, Thomas came barreling around the hood of the car. Casey started to back up but he didn't move fast enough. Thomas shoved him hard and he tripped on the cement curb and fell back into the gas pump, banging his head on the hard plastic and grinding his hip into the hard surface at the same time. Moments later, the sedan tore out of the lot, leaving Casey behind.

The clerk bore down upon him in the next instant, now with significant crowd support. Hands were laid upon him and that was the last thing he could consciously interpret. He knew he was fighting, screaming, and eventually sobbing with hard, wet asphalt against his cheek, and his whole body immobilized, pinned against hardness on all sides. There was a blur of conversation, argument perhaps. There were voices, both male and female and he was lost again. He was trapped and so far beyond the ability to do anything for himself, there was no yes or no, there was nothing to protest for or on behalf of it.

At some point, he opened his eyes. He was in a room filled with boxes of merchandise — Hershey's and Lay's and Coca Cola and other, similar names, were everywhere. There was a small, cheap desk covered in paper, a single chair, and he was lying on the cement floor next to the desk with something — someone's coat over him. He sat up slowly, his body aching and stiff, and saw the pear-shaped clerk standing above him.

"The police are here," the clerk said, sounding anything but friendly. In fact, he was gloating.

Casey tried to get on his feet and gave up when everything spun and twisted about, including his stomach. Putting his back to the wall, he held onto it with both hands and closed his eyes. The last thing he needed was to start crying or to throw up — doomed or not.

"...and the other guy took off but I can tell you it was a red Oldsmobile and I grabbed the licence plate! I told the lady on the switchboard, you got it right?" the clerk finished triumphantly, leading two uniformed figures into the stock room. Pointing at Casey, the clerk declared, "And this here's the accomplice!"

The two cops gave Casey their professional assessment while he blinked back, continuing to fight tears. One of the cops was a younger woman, petite and definitely not the stereotype of law enforcement. The other was an older man who appeared to have eaten a lot of doughnuts.

"He filled the tank while buddy was inside, getting lunch," accused the clerk.

"I didn't know..." Casey croaked.

"Why is he on the floor?" asked the female officer.

"He resisted arrest," the clerk answered. "I was just gonna bring him inside but he freaked out and it took five of us to control him. He's nuts if you ask me, after we pinned him he was all shivering and moaning so we put him in here. I thought we better cover him, you know? I don't want to get sued. I heard a story about a thief who breaks into someone's house and hurts himself and then he sues!" The clerk appealed to the police officers with a wide, appalled grin, and when he failed to receive vindication, he became more subdued. "Anyway. He resisted arrest."

The older cop said, "He hasn't been arrested yet, Mr...?"

"Berringer. Sam Berringer."

The cop nodded, making a note of it. "And if you could perhaps go with my partner, she'll take your statement."

"Did you get that licence plate number? I told the lady on the phone..."

"Yes, Mr. Berringer, we got it and we are looking for the car. Now, I'm going to talk to this accomplice you caught."

The male cop and his partner exchanged a look and a nod, and the woman led the clerk out of the storage area while the other police officer approached Casey "I'm Officer Williams," he said. Removing his identification from his pocket, he squatted and displayed it to Casey. "Would you like to get up off the floor?"

Casey did want to, mostly because complying was what you did when cops asked you a question, but his stomach was still churning dangerously. He slid his way up a little bit, keeping his back to the wall to brace himself, and gave up when his gut lurched. He sank back down with a shake of his head.

"Would you like to sit then?"

There was one chair only, and Casey didn't want it. Or he did, but he was afraid to move and didn't have the words to explain himself.

"All right, then." Officer Williams settled on top of the desk, grunting with discomfort. He flipped open his notebook and said, "How about telling me your name?"

Casey wasn't sure about that but he was certain of about twenty other things all at once and barely able to put any of them into a coherent form but somewhere amongst all the junk were the words jail and hospital, and he was sure that the man would somehow identify him as that Casey Connor, Wanted for Lunacy and All-Around Slutty Behaviour.

"I'm not arresting you just yet," Officer William told him. "In case you were wondering."

He had to be smarter here. He had to think, function...he had to be like Zeke. BelikeZeke. No matter how much stress he was under, if he felt weak and cold and his nerves were prickling all over his body, Zeke would always perform. BelikeZeke.

"I...I'd like to s-sit," Casey stuttered. He really didn't like the floor, especially when he was so vulnerable to everyone else here. "In th-the...chair."

"All right."

The officer deployed a hand. Casey looked it over and then grasped it, using it to get upright — whereupon he lost to the nausea. He threw up, not quite missing the cop's feet.

"Oops!" the cop exclaimed, and added after a moment, "Ugh! Dang it all!" He grabbed some industrial brown napkins from a shelf and swiped at his shoes.

Meanwhile, the clerk and the other cop had shown up. "Oh, hell, no!" the clerk lamented. "I'm not cleaning that!"

"Oh, no?" asked the female cop. "It's not part of my duties, I know that."

"What about him — ?" The clerk glared at Casey for a second then kicked the door. "Damn."

Cursing, he went to fetch the nearest mop, while Officer William eased Casey into the plastic chair; he grabbed another napkin and offered it to Casey. Casey wiped his mouth and tried to stop his hand from shaking.

"He might have a concussion," the female cop suggested matter-of-factly.

"Did you hit your head?" Williams asked Casey.

There had been that painful contact with the gas pump, but Casey didn't think it had done any real damage. He shook his head. "I just...when I get nervous," he said.

Well within earshot, the clerk snorted and did his business with the mop.

"Can I have a drink?" Casey asked.

"I'll bet you'd like a free meal while you're at it," the clerk grumbled.

"Mr. Berringer, if you'll fetch a soda for him, please," Williams said, eyes neutral on Casey. "I'll pay for it."

Muttering, Berringer went to retrieve a soda. He brought back a Coke and slapped it into Casey's hand much harder than necessary. Casey thought it best that he not mention how he wasn't supposed to have things with caffeine. He cracked it open and took a drink, washing away the bitter-vomit taste.

When finally the clerk and the female cop had left the stock room, Williams requested, "Now would you like to tell me your name?"

"Casey Connor."

"And where do you live?"

"Two-fifty-two...Colorado S-street."

"Have you been doing some drugs today, Mr. Connor?"

"No!"

"Hmm. How about alcohol?"

"No...I, um...I take medications...not supposed to drink. And I don't really want to anyway."

"Okay. What medications do you take?"

"Paxil and Klonopin."

"I see." Casey watched for some judgment and saw none, no reaction at all. "So, Mr. Connor. Would you like to tell me what happened?"

Casey hugged his chest, the better to hold himself together, and said, "Aren't you supposed to read me my rights first or something?"

"If I was arresting you, yeah. This is off the record right now."

"Oh." Taking a deep breath, Casey made himself speak. There was no Zeke here now, no Sasha. Only he could get himself out of this shit pile. "I don't know where to start."

"Well, how about we start with who's the other man."

"Thomas...Kirton. That's what he said at least."

"You don't know?"

"He's just this guy I would run into around my neighbourhood. We would talk and stuff...I think he's..." Casey bit his lip.

"He's what?"

"Officer...Williams... he's a real nice guy, I swear. He was always nice to me, he's just sick and down on his luck. I thought...well, lately he's looked so rough, we — I thought he was homeless."

"How did you end up with him in a stolen car?"

"S-stolen?"

"You didn't know."

"No."

"A guy is homeless and then he's suddenly driving around in an Olds but you didn't think anything of it?"

"I did ask him. He said his dad sent him some money."

"Hmm. Well, as it turns out the car was stolen from a repo lot last Thursday."

Oh, shit, oh god. Casey supposed it wasn't a good idea to begin his tenure as a convicted felon by crying, but there didn't seem to be much else he could do. He was fucked. So very fucked. "Am I going to jail?" he whispered.

"Did you help him steal it?"

"No...definitely...no. I didn't know it was stolen, I was only in it for twenty minutes, I swear..."

"Okay, Mr. Connor. So what happened here then?"

Casey envisioned himself happily filling up the gas tank, congratulating himself on his success, and for some moments he harboured the thought of lying because he really had done it. He was a thief of forty-eight dollars worth of gas. He hadn't known that he was doing it but suppose this cop didn't believe him or the law said he was an accomplice no matter if he knew or not —

"Mr. Connor?" the cop prompted.

It was time to use his biggest weapons, cheap theatrics as Thomas had said and sneered but it was time no matter how ignoble it was. Casey opened his eyes up as wide as he could get them and turned on the angst lamp. "I didn't know," he said, not in a large voice but careful to be audible all the same. If he overplayed it the cop would just get frustrated.

Officer Williams held his gaze for a few seconds longer than the norm before saying, apparently unaffected, "You didn't know what?"

Casey thought about trying to touch the man's hand, decided against it. Instinct said this was a decent man, not to mention straight. Williams wouldn't want a suggestion of bribery no matter how subtle. Casey merely replied, "That he didn't have any money. He said he would go in and pay while I filled up the tank." It was no challenge to manufacture a few tears though, given that his triumph at the gas tank had all been a sham and all his friends were mad at him, or soon would be. They would hate him.

Officer Williams looked at him solemnly, tapping his pen on his notepad. "Casey."

"Yes, officer?"

"You can tell me the truth."

"I am!" he protested and a few more tears squeezed out quite involuntarily. "I've never done anything illegal, never..." If you don't count destruction of school property and xenocide "When I realized...I couldn't believe it, I know I sound stupid."

"You don't sound stupid." Williams put down his gear for a moment. "You do seem to be trying to sell me something, though."

"Just the truth."

"Then tell me. Talk to me."

Panic was rising. Casey had already been talking and he didn't know what else to do, and if there was nothing else to do, nothing to fall back on, then he was fucked, or maybe this guy had already recognized him or learned on his radio about him just like he'd discovered the car was stolen, Casey Connor had to be in those computers, he had to be, that weird, spaced out kid from Ohio who had been questioned in connection with three disappearances of three women... Oh, fuck he could see it now, hear it now coming over the radio from headquarters...

"I didn't know," he babbled. "I didn't know, I didn't know, I thought...I...I..."

"There's no need to get upset, Mr. Connor."

"He said get in the car and I said no, I didn't want to..."

Williams leaned in closer. "What's that? Tell me again...slowly."

"He c-came out with a soda — two sodas, one for me because I asked him — "

"Slowly."

Casey sucked air. "He had the two sodas and a burrito or something. I think...sir, he's not a bad person, please. I think he's sick and he's been on the street. He was probably hungry."

"Mm hmm."

"That guy — Sam — he came out and said, ‘you didn't pay for that' and then Thomas panicked. He told me to get in and I said no. I — I never really wanted to go with him in the first place."

"How's that?"

"I just wanted to talk to him for a minute but he drove away and wouldn't stop to let me out."

"Are you saying he was holding you against your will?"

"Not exactly."

"Not exactly?"

"I...I knew he wouldn't hurt me, he just really wanted me to go with him. I could have run away when we got here but I decided I would just go with him..."

"Do you live with your parents, Mr. Connor?"

"Um...no, I live with Zeke."

"Zeke?"

"My..." Casey considered his options and went with caution. "My roommate. And Sasha, he's my roommate too. And my Dad's visiting right now."

"Do they know where you are?"

Casey was pummelled by shame. "No."

"And how old are you?"

"Nineteen."

"Really?" the cop asked skeptically, scanning Casey.

"Yes."

"Do you have identification?"

"Not...with me. I didn't take it when I left the house."

"All right. I think what we'll do is drive over to the police station and if you want to you can call home from there."

"The police station," Casey gulped.

"That's right. We have some paperwork to do and I'd prefer not to let you go until we track down this Thomas."

"Not — let — me go?"

"I don't mean I'm putting you in jail, Mr. Connor." Williams offered a hand to help Casey stand up, which he ignored. "But this could have been very serious, you know. Car theft is very serious and stealing fifty dollars of gas and soda and snacks may not sound like much but it all adds up to big trouble. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Casey whispered, rising slowly to his feet. His head gave a throb. "I understand."

Without a change in expression, the cop said, "Did Mr. Kirton harm you in any way — or Mr. Berringer in his very thorough attempts to detain you? Do we need to stop at the hospital to have you looked over?"

"No," Casey said immediately, feeling the trap tighten for a second, cutting off his air. "No, I'm fine, I — I d-don't need that."

Officer Williams gave him a second, and a third look perhaps, then said, "All right. Let's go, then."

As they walked out of the store room and past the clerk Sam, where he had been deep in conference with the other cop, the man leaped out from behind her and demanded, "You're charging him, right?"

Williams replied, "We're taking him in."

The man folded his arms and looked highly self-important, focussing the better part of that self-importance on Casey. Casey thought he'd probably better not say anything or the man might jump on him again.

He was escorted to the car by the cop, finding Williams' presence oddly comforting as against the slight mob that was hanging around. There were whispers and snickers and he wanted to scream at them that he was not being arrested, he wasn't a bad kid. He'd always done what he was told, obeyed his parents, his teachers...his friends and lovers, of late. Well, except for the parts where he'd betrayed Zeke, with Roy and then with Thomas. And he'd been a nervy little bastard, and a constant irritation, mouthy and rebellious when people were just trying to help him but he couldn't seem to stop himself so maybe that made him crazy rather than bad — but Thomas insisted that he was just putting up a pretense of craziness. So then he was no good, couldn't be anything but given all the shit he'd pulled. There was no other conclusion to draw.

A hand on his head directed him into the back seat of the police car. His skin crawled, but he forced himself to tolerate it. Once he was seated in the back, Williams got in on the passenger side.

"Sir," Casey whispered.

"What, Mr. Connor." The cop had his head down, filling out some form or other, perhaps recording his interview with Casey.

"Am I a bad person?"

There was no discernable reaction. Then the cop half twisted to look at him. "Why do you ask?"

"I ran out without telling my dad or...or anyone where I was going and they probably think I went off to kill myself. And my friend Sasha...he's probably ready to kill himself too because he cares and he worries so much. And just so I could go for a joyride."

"It doesn't seem like you've had all that much fun on this ‘ride'," the police officer noted.

"No...that's true, but..." Zeke was probably having a fucking stroke. And Sasha. And his father. "I wasn't thinking about how they'd feel at all. I'm horrible."

Officer Williams chuckled. "You're nineteen, kiddo. My seventeen-year-old isn't much different."

"But...how would you feel if he..."

"I'd knock him into next week," the cop growled. "And I'm sure you're going to have the crap raining down on you too."

Just then the female cop got into the car. "All set then?" she asked.

"Yup."

The car was on the highway shortly, heading back into Seattle and the two cops began chatting about where they were going to grab lunch.

"Mario's?" the woman suggested.

"Nah."

"Why not?"

"The heartburn just about killed me last time."

"Okay, how about Jack in the Box?"

"Whatever. I need to process our prisoner here first."

Casey didn't like the sound of that. He screwed up his courage and asked, "Sir?"

"Yes, Mr. Connor."

"Are you sure...I mean...you said no jail."

He saw the woman's eyes on him in the rearview mirror. She looked amused.

"I said most likely," Williams corrected him.

"But..." Casey protested, and fell silent. If he was too vocal, they might just get fed up and toss him in a cell. There was no telling what would happen to him then, but Casey had a few, pretty graphic ideas. He kept quiet for the rest of the ride.

The station where they arrived proclaimed itself as the East Precinct; it was a building that had probably been very fashionable in the seventies, when people seemed to think that cement walls were attractive. They parked around the side where there were a number of official looking vehicles, and Officer Williams opened the door for Casey. He attempted to guide him with a paw on his shoulder but Casey twitched involuntarily, hard enough to push him off.

"Hey. No attitude now," said the cop.

"I'm not," Casey replied, but tried to stay out of the man's reach.

With a shake of his head, Williams nudged Casey inside, through a back door and a series of hallways that were lively with people, many in uniform. There were also some surly and dangerous looking people, and others who were simply looking poor and miserable. One of them, a transvestite with an eye that was puffed, blackened and lacerated all at once, winked at Casey as he passed.

"This way."

The cop directed Casey to a desk that held up a computer and various files and stacks of papers. It didn't bear any personalizing marks, however, and seemed like a communal desk. Looking around, Casey saw several like this. He took the uncomfortable, plastic chair that he was instructed to, and tried to make himself tiny inside a shield of don't touch that hopefully would be obvious to everyone.

The cop produced an official looking form. "Witness Statement," it read.

"I want you to sit there and fill that out," he informed Casey, "but first you can call home and see if there's someone who'll come pick you up."

At this open indication that he was not going to be locked up or have a record, Casey thought he would burst into tears. It must have been obvious too, for Officer Williams reached out with an obvious intention to touch him, thought the better of it, and just shrugged. Casey rubbed his eye as a precautionary measure. "Of-ficer?"

"Yes, Mr. Connor?"

"What's going to happen to Thomas?"

The man pursed his lips. "Well. First of all we have to apprehend him. Then I think we'll probably charge him with Grand Theft Auto and Kidnapping."

"No!" Casey protested. "No, don't...I wasn't kidnapped, not really."

"You said he wouldn't let you out of the car."

"At first...but I changed my mind."

"You changed your mind."

"I figured I'd just go along. He wouldn't have hurt me."

"How do you know that?"

Casey stared at the cop. "I just do," he answered, lifting his chin and hoping he came off as at least nineteen, if not older.

"Huh. Well, let me make a call or two and see what's developed. Meanwhile, I want you to make your call." Williams pointed at the phone on the desk.

The older man walked away to consult with someone even more official. Casey was left on his own; he cast uneasy looks about the office, searching for signs of threat, and quickly realized how fruitless that was. Threat was everywhere, on all sides. Busy police officers, edgy witnesses, a few cuffed people, shouts, laughter, phones ringing. Maybe his friends and father were going to kill him, both all at once and separately, but on the other hand if he stayed here he could look forward to worse than death. He reached for the phone.

There was something about the way his dad said, "hello" that let Casey know how vulnerable his father felt. He was expecting bad news, clearly.

"Dad." Don't be mad I didn't mean it just come and get me please don't make me please don't make me stay here.

There was a silence. Then, his father answered and sounded absolutely calm, "Casey. Where are you?"

"At the...the, um...p-police station."

"Police."

"I h-haven't been arrested — "

"Are you hurt?"

"No. I can explain, Dad — just — can you come and pick me up?"

"Just a sec — " His father went away. There was muffled conversation and then Zeke was on the line and demanding, "What the fuck are you trying to do to me, Casey?" Casey was aware of his mouth flopping, making no sound and then Zeke went on as though he hadn't made the comment. "Where are you?"

"At the East Precinct. I don't know the address."

"We'll look it up. We'll be there in less than an hour, you hear?"

"Yes."

"If you aren't there, Casey, I'll hunt you down and kill you."

"Okay."

"Are you okay?"

Casey whispered it into the phone: "I'm scared."

"I'll be right there, Casey."

"Kay. Zeke..."

"What?"

"I didn't mean to — I didn't run away."

Zeke was quiet for a second. "What happened, then?"

Casey closed his eyes and held his breath. "Thomas," he said.

"Thomas?" Zeke broke in. "Fucking Thomas?"

"Yes, he — "

"You were with that fucker?"

"Let me tell you, Zeke, okay?"

Casey could hear him breathing, hard and long and he finally agreed, "Okay."

"I was on my way to Yves and he beeped his horn me and I thought I'd just tell him — "

"What do you mean he beeped?"

"He was in a car."

"Casey, the last time I saw him he was living on the fucking street."

"But he said it was his."

"You — " Zeke curbed himself. "Go on."

"He said get in so I did."

"Why?"

"Why did I get in?"

"Why did you listen to him, why do you even know this person, why do — okay, okay. Just tell me. Did he fuck you?" Casey heard noises of protest in the background, sounds that Zeke patently ignored. "Well, Casey?"

"Nothing happened," Casey vowed. "Nothing...but he drove away and I couldn't get out and then it turned out the car was stolen."

"So he didn't touch you."

"No, never. Well, except..."

"Except what?"

"He pulled my hair."

"Motherfucker. You stay put, Casey. I'm on my way."

"Okay...um, Zeke?"

"Yes?"

"Could you call Yves and let her know why I didn't show up?"

"Oh...right."

"Thanks."

"No problem. See you soon."

"Bye."

Hanging up, Casey tucked his feet up on the plastic chair and tried not to count the seconds. Zeke hadn't sounded angry — well, to be accurate, he still sounded angry but in an entirely different way, like maybe some of it wasn't aimed at Casey, not quite so much...but he had to be furious at Casey still. He'd put Zeke through every kind of crap and now this was just another dimension of crap.

The sound and sight of Officer Williams plopping down before him startled him. "Okay, so did you call?"

"Yes. They're coming to get me."

"Good. Now you need to do your statement and then I'll tell you the news."

"What news?"

"I said I'd tell you later."

"Please...tell me now?"

Williams shook his head but said, "Okay. We did track down your friend and pulled him over. I'm afraid he's a little bit more dangerous than you thought, Mr. Connor. When the officers confronted him he threw some kind of fit and had to be subdued. He's been taken to the hospital for evaluation."

"But he's not dangerous."

"I beg to differ."

"He wouldn't hurt anyone."

"He gave one cop a broken nose."

"He was probably scared," Casey insisted, clenching both hands. Thomas must be so frightened right now. He had certainly been frightened when he pushed Casey out of the way, he never would have done it otherwise. And Casey knew that he himself would have been frightened. He would have been terrified — fuck, what was happening to his friend? He couldn't bear to think about it.

"I'm sure he was but that's beside the point. You don't want him running around on the street, do you?"

Casey didn't know the answer to that, so he begged, "Will he go to jail?"

"Hard to say. It depends on some things. I doubt he's going to stand trial, from the sounds of it."

Casey's heart sank with regret at such an outcome for a man who was smart and gifted and handsome, a man who had helped him too, in his way. It wasn't fair that Thomas was being locked up, that he was sick...or different, for that matter. Not that Thomas seemed to mind being different nearly as much as he minded being sick. If this was how he showed Casey what sick meant, Casey could have managed without it.

Williams tapped the still-blank witness statement. "You have work to do here."

"What do I put?"

"Everything you told me, but stick to the facts, all right? No commentary about what a nice guy he is."

"But he is — "

"Mr. Connor. Trust the system a little, okay? You just write what went down today. Would you like a cup of coffee or something? I'll get you one."

"No, thank you."

Succumbing to authority, Casey bent his head to the page and concentrated on telling the truth — mostly. It was a lot like writing in his journal except he left out the explanations of how he had come to know Thomas, saying only that he had talked to him a few times and then going on to describe getting in the car and being surprised that Thomas wanted him to come to Portland but never at any point feeling that Thomas would hurt him which was perhaps a slight fib.

Throughout the last several minutes of this process, Officer Williams was sitting at the desk, waiting for him to finish and then the cop read it over, nodding but saying little except, "Is there anything you forgot?"

"I don't think so."

"All right, then. I'll need you to sign here."

"Officer Williams?"

"Yes, Mr. Connor," sighed the older man.

"Am I going to be charged with anything?"

Williams wore a stern expression. "No. Am I ever going to see you in here again?"

"No, sir."

"That's the right answer. Now, I'm going to just get you to sit in a waiting area until your roommates arrive."

The words "waiting area" were a knell of doom. Casey imagined everything from hard-voiced women to unctuous pimps and drug dealers and he started to shake but then he heard, "Casey," and whirled to match his dad's face to the voice. He hadn't given any thought to what he should expect or how to deflect it, but Frank Connor looked remarkably calm, and even more so as he considered Casey from top to bottom, assessing. Finding him intact, he simply stepped forward and put his arm around Casey's shoulders. He said to Officer Williams, his voice a little bit hoarse, "I'm Frank Connor." Hesitating, he stuck out his hand.

Williams shook it readily enough. "Harold Williams."

"Is everything...all right?"

"Yes. As far as I'm concerned Casey was the victim of an attempted kidnapping followed by a misunderstanding." Casey waited for his dad to ask about the who and the what but it didn't happen. Williams continued, "He's made a statement about what happened and if there is ever a trial of Mr. Kirton, he may be called as a witness but I suspect that wouldn't happen for a while, if at all."

"Why is that?"

"Because Mr. Kirton appears to be a very sick man. He's in a hospital as we speak."

Casey wanted to cry for Thomas but he knew better than to let loose just now. The grieving for Thomas would have to wait.

"So we can go?" his father was asking.

"Yes. Please do." Williams grinned and made a gesture to wave them along. Casey recalled that Williams' lunch was long overdue.

"Good, because Zeke's going to get himself arrested," muttered Casey's dad, steering Casey. "Let's go. Thank you, officer."

"No problem."

Casey picked up his steps, dreading to find out what his father meant in regard to Zeke. He made his way past the desks, following the signs towards the front lobby, and as he got closer to it, he began to hear Zeke, getting louder with each step. " — no sense that just because a guy shot off some sperm suddenly he's the next of kin!"

And a stranger's voice answered, "I've had just about enough of you, mister."

"Oh, yeah? Well, how about you just sit and spin, asshoh — "

That was when Casey spotted Zeke with one hand and one middle finger raised and Sasha attempting to prevent it, grabbing him around the waist to keep his arms at his sides. "Christ," muttered Casey's father.

"Zeke," Casey called out, as loudly as he could.

Zeke's posture changed instantly, tension draining from him as he looked towards Casey. There were fretful notions of Zeke possibly being arrested or otherwise being hurt but they vanished, Casey becoming oblivious to cops and Thomas and hospitals, jails, and the precinct lobby. He had taken some steps and Zeke had taken some steps too perhaps, and Sasha must have let him go or perhaps it didn't matter because Zeke wouldn't be stopped. Casey was enveloped entirely, in a way that had not happened since forever. He was nowhere but With Zeke. There was nothing else.

 

Clutching his phone, Zeke scoured the neighbourhood looking for signs of Casey. The familiar, geometric grid of stores and buildings with their neat borders of orderly streets had turned into a terrifying maze. Casey wasn't anywhere in it, not in Zorba's or at the movie rental place or at the park where Zeke had once found him. He wasn't wandering around on the street and he wasn't in Wellth either. Stokely was in Wellth, as usual, but Casey was not. He was gone —

"Oh, shit. What is it?" Stokely had been doing something with some meaningless thing on a shelf, a thing that she dropped upon seeing Zeke. "What's wrong?"

"You haven't seen him have you?" Zeke gasped.

"Casey? No."

"Okay. Gotta go." Zeke was well on his way out of the building when he heard Stokely from behind him.

"Zeke, wait. Wait — "

He stopped, for some unknown reason. She came closer and put a hand on his arm. A sob welled and he gulped, "I fucked up...I fucked up."

"Let me help."

"No, I've..." He compelled himself to a semblance of control. He must become stone, an inanimate thing without skin or sensation or even a functioning nervous system. "I've been all over the neighbourhood, I don't know where else to look, he could be anywhere."

"What happened?"

"I told you." His voice was deadened, as that was how it had to be. He could still function as long as he felt nothing. "I fucked up and now Casey's missing and it just so happens his shrink has had him on suicide watch the last few days...but that didn't stop me from being a total prick to him, so here we are. In a nutshell."

Stokely's eyes were perfectly round, he noted, the pupils like perfect, empty dots. "I don't know what to say to that," she said.

"I would imagine not." Zeke separated himself from her grip.

"Zeke."

"Stokely...I have to go."

"Casey's not going to kill himself."

"Okay," Zeke allowed, mainly to placate her so he could get away and continue his search. Unexpectedly, his mouth opened and he added, "Except that's what you always think about a person...and then they do. And then you hear people say, ‘oh, I had no idea' or ‘I never would have thought' and ‘he had so much to live for'..."

"He does."

"What?"

"He does have so much to live for."

"Oh, really? Like what?"

"You, for one."

Zeke snorted. "Maybe he knows I'll kick his skinny ass."

"Well...whatever works. Besides, it wouldn't be like Casey."

"But Stokes, he's sick, don't you get it? It's not a matter of character."

Stokely pressed her lips together.

"What?" he inquired wearily.

"You've changed, Zeke."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"You don't seem to..." Stokely trailed away.

Zeke rolled his eyes. "Go ahead, I doubt it can make anything worse."

Stokely's expression firmed. "You don't see Casey anymore."

The comment proved that he most definitely could still feel. He was ready to rupture from anger. "I see Casey. No one else sees Casey except me..." He just managed to catch himself. "He has to be sick as far as I'm concerned, he has to or he wouldn't pull the shit he does and..."

He stopped.

"And?" Stokely whispered.

I can't forgive him if he's not sick.

Zeke closed his eyes to let that one sink in. It rattled around his head. It was a dark, smouldering pile lurking in a dark, smouldering corner. It was rank.

"I need to go," he muttered and bolted out the door, ignoring Stokely's protests.

He had little memory of who or what was on the street, what he dodged on his way up to the empty apartment. Then there was a blank, and he found himself on the couch in his own living room, staring at the wall.

Recent evidence aside, he was no idiot — he knew he was on the brink of something. If Casey was dead, that was an apocalypse so there was really no reason to think about that. Say Casey wasn't dead, though. If he wasn't, then Zeke was at a major junction. He'd been at junctions before and not recognized them but this time...he had to pay attention here.

He'd always figured he was the one person who always held Casey accountable, who didn't excuse him for anything. If nothing else, even if he was controlling and possessive and an ass, he always had that one thing going for him. He treated Casey as a person...didn't he? Yes. A person who just happened to have some really counterproductive traits about him. It was the right way to be with Casey, Zeke knew it was right. So maybe it didn't always steer him in the right direction. Having a Winona around had been a good idea, in theory. Having sex with Casey despite his various traumas could have been healing, going to Los Angeles could have been empowering. Finding out the truth about Roy...well, that should have been a major sign that he was losing his center. Trying to find a way to believe that Casey was a victim, that he wasn't responsible...and yeah, okay, maybe he had just wanted a bit of revenge.

But this now, being on the brink of reducing Casey from complicated to just plain sick, this was wrong. It was the one thing Zeke had never done to Casey and here he was about to do it. If he did, he would be fucking lost.

Okay, but could he forgive, really and truly forgive an action that had no excuse?

It could be explained maybe, even pitied, but not justified. Not by Zeke, not as Casey's lover. He'd decided he wanted to try it and he'd even convinced himself he had done it. The only problem was, he hadn't. This morning had proven that. He couldn't stop caring or wanting Casey and yet he couldn't bear to look at him. Every time he did, he saw him with Thomas.

He didn't think that could be forgiven. He wished he had it in him but he didn't, not to accept Casey submitting his body to someone else's hands deliberately, to hurt the person whom that body belonged to. No. Zeke had given Casey a free pass over Roy last summer and Casey knew it. He knew exactly what he was doing when he let Thomas touch him. Just fucking no.

The door jostled and banged. "We're ba-a-ack!" Sasha sang. "Hey, hey — shoes in the doorway, hello? I nearly tripped and fell to my death."

"Drama queen," said Jerry from the same vicinity.

Zeke drew in a long breath and sighed it out.

No forgiveness, then. It felt good.

"Hey, kitten?! Zeke?"

"Maybe he's gone to his appointment?" Jerry suggested.

"Oh, right. I keep forgetting how late it is, you lazy slug."

"That would make you a lazy slug too."

"Guilty — well, where's Frank then?"

They would find him soon enough. Zeke stood up and went to face the authorities. He caught Sasha in the act of lining up his boots, coat still on, scarf hanging loose. He looked happy — and why wouldn't he be, Zeke thought. As far as he knew his two best friends were back together albeit with appropriate supervision, he had a boyfriend he loved, all was well with the world, or pretty near.

Except Sasha took one look at Zeke and the sparkle died. "Zeke," he said. "What's wrong? I thought you were going to therapy with Casey, why...?" His eyes widened with growing panic. "Where is he?"

"I don't know."

"Say again?" Sasha clutched Jerry's arm, hard enough to make him wince but Sasha didn't even notice. "What did you do?"

The phrasing had the defensive rage on a fast boil but Zeke couldn't deny the truth in Sasha's comment. He gritted, "Long story short, we fought and I acted like a jerk. Then he said he had to go to see Yves so he left and a while later she called and said he never showed up."

"Shit. Fuck." Sasha started jamming his feet back into his boots.

"I've been all over the place looking for him," Zeke said.

"Yeah, well, now it's my turn — "

Before Sasha could get out the door, however, there was a casual knock and it opened again, bringing a somewhat bleary-looking, unshaven Frank Connor. He took in the three of them standing there, and like Sasha, immediately went on his guard, which gave Zeke some belated indication of what they'd been dealing with in his absence.

"What's going on?" Frank asked.

Curt and to the point, Sasha replied, "Casey's missing. He didn't show for his appointment with Yves."

"You didn't go with him?"

"Zeke was supposed to."

Both Frank and Sasha looked at Zeke, who wanted to sink through the floor. "Why didn't you go with him?" Frank demanded.

Zeke was about to protest that no one told him it was required, but it felt too hollow to even attempt it. He didn't want to sound like he was making excuses. He didn't even say that Casey had forbidden him to come to therapy with him, although it was true.

"I'm going to go look for him," Sasha said.

"I'll come with you," Jerry put in.

Sasha stared at him, his throat working, and then nodded.

"You two stay here in case he calls," Jerry directed. The unspoken, of course, was Frank, make sure you're the one who answers the phone.

Moments later they were out the door. Zeke listened and heard the faint drone of their voices. He couldn't make out the words but he was certain they were blaming him. He made a point of looking Frank directly in the eye, expecting to have to beat down some parental blame as well. It was still astonishing and horrific that Frank had somehow become his greatest rival, and to have to endure the criticism of this man of all people was intolerable.

"So," Zeke said. His voice sounded tinny and distant. "I hear you're superdad now."

Rather than look accusing, or even defensive, Frank just looked bored. "What?"

"Kicking down the bathroom door and so on. Pretty impressive." Still, there was no appreciable reaction. By now the man should have been the rich shade of a cooked lobster. Zeke added, "And telling Yves about the aliens too. You must be bucking for father of the decade."

"Zeke," said Casey's father tiredly. "I'd just like to sit."

"Sit and do nothing, right?"

"I want my son to be okay."

"You think you can waltz in at this point and make up for years of not being around?"

Zeke suddenly had a face full of Frank Connor. "Listen, Zeke. I'm tired and hung over and afraid for my son right now, and I don't need your shit. Now get the hell out of my way."

Zeke didn't make any attempt to stop Casey's father as he shouldered around him. After a minute, he followed the man into the living room and sat. Frank tossed a wary glance in his direction and said nothing.

It had to have been five whole minutes but Zeke eventually got the words out of his mouth: "I'm sorry."

"Forget it," Frank muttered.

They had nothing else to say to each other. It could have been a minute or an hour, but at some point the phone did ring. Zeke looked at a clock then and discovered that only fifteen minutes had passed.

His next thought was exactly how bad this phone call could be. It could be a call that started a world in which there was No More Casey, as impossible as that was. Casey could be gone forever, his smile and his incredible face, his intelligence and eccentricity and his funny sense of humour. Zeke bent over and put his face in his hands, hearing, as from a great distance, Frank getting up to answer. No More Casey. No More. He knew it was true in the same way that he knew, had known from age five or six, that life sucked and everyone could be depended upon to leave.

"Hello," Frank said, and then, "Casey?"

There was something wet on Zeke's fingers, it seemed. He pressed and pressed because he was not going to let this happen, not now. Sucking a breath, he lifted his head and saw that Frank's face was getting contorted, losing containment. Zeke leapt up and seized the phone from him.

"What the fuck are you trying to do to me, Casey?"

Casey said nothing.

"Where are you?" Zeke demanded.

"At the East Precinct." Casey's voice was shaking. It was scared, begging for rescue, it was saying come and save me Zeke, help me. "I don't know the address."

There were explanations that had to happen but right now Zeke didn't care. All of that would come. Right now Zeke needed Casey in his presence, back in his care. That was what Casey was really asking — that Zeke come and get him and resume his proper role. It was his vocation, even. "We'll look it up," Zeke said. "We'll be there in less than an hour, do you hear?"

"Yes," Casey said.

It sounded like perfect compliance, but still not perfect enough for Zeke. "If you aren't there, Casey, I'll hunt you down and kill you."

"Okay," Casey agreed.

And then tears were rattling in Zeke's throat again. "Are you okay?" he strangled.

"I'm scared."

It was the perfect invitation, the sealing of recognition that they were approaching sync. "I'll be right there, Casey."

"Kay. Zeke…"

"What?"

"I didn't mean to — I didn't run away."

He hadn't meant to ask now but he did. "What happened, then?"

It came like a sinister whisper, a breath of poison: "Thomas — "

The balance tilted and reality came apart on him all over again. He was losing his mind. He wanted to kill something. "Thomas? Fucking Thomas?"

"Yes, he – "

"You were with that fucker!"

Casey suddenly got forceful. "Let me tell you, Zeke, okay?"

Let me tell you, Zeke almost howled. You don't touch him. You don't look at him, you don't let him touch you, you don't look at anyone else! You don't but you did and we are done.

"Okay," he forced out, and waited for Casey to damn himself.

"I was on my way to see Yves and he beeped his horn at me and I thought I'd just say good-bye — "

"What do you mean he beeped?" Zeke snarled. He was being lied to again but there would be no getting away with it this time.

"He was in a car."

Oh, right. Casey could do much better than this. "Casey, he was living on the fucking street."

"But he said it was his."

"You — " Zeke started but he didn't know what to do with that. He'd just let Casey keep lying and then crush him with the truth later. "Go on."

"He said get in, so I did."

"Why?"

"Why did I get in?"

Zeke bit the words off and spat them down. "Why did you listen to him, why do you even know this person, why — " Why do you let him touch you and ruin everything why... Oh, but he'd said he'd wait and listen, hear it out. Ethics were all he had. "Okay, okay. Just tell me. Did he fuck you?"

"I'm not hearing this!" Frank hissed.

"Nothing happened, I swear," Casey said. "But he drove away and I couldn't get out and then it turned out the car was stolen."

It was too absurd. Casey was too good at lying to make up something that ridiculous and therefore it had the ring of truth...except the part where nothing happened, of course. "So he didn't touch you, that's what you're telling me?"

"No. Well, except..."

Un-huh.

"Except what?" Zeke asked mildly.

Casey's voice broke with perfect artfulness. "He pulled my hair."

Well, Zeke could play along. He would go and get Casey and have the truth and then he would tell him it was over, and the first time Casey tried to get some from another man, Zeke would kill them both. It was really all quite simple now.

"Motherfucker," he ground out, and he meant it. "You stay put, Casey. I'm on my way."

"Okay...um, Zeke?"

"Yes."

"Could you call Yves and let her know why I didn't show up?"

"Oh..." That was easily done. In his personal distress, Zeke had forgotten that Casey was at risk of being involuntarily hospitalized, and that wasn't going to happen because it was Zeke who dished out the retribution around here. "Right."

"Thanks."

"No problem. See you soon."

He hung up.

Frank was making a face that was a perfect hybrid of a glare and a wince. He said, "I don't like hearing references to fucking and my son in the same sentence."

Zeke wanted to laugh. "What did you think we queers do together?"

"I don't care. I don't want to hear about...about that." Frank couldn't seem to bring himself to say it, or even think about it without feeling sick for that matter.

Zeke decided to show mercy, seeing as his real prey was at the East Precinct, wherever that was. He went looking for Yves' number, found it tacked to the front of the fridge. Calling it, he got the receptionist who said that Dr. Yves was in with a client. Zeke left a message to the effect that Casey was all right and hadn't tried anything, that he'd set out with every intention of coming to see her but had been prevented though no fault of his own, and to please not hold it against him. And Casey would try to phone her this afternoon. The receptionist said he should call after four.

Next, Zeke went to the computer and looked up the web page for the Seattle Police Department. He found the address that he needed in less than a minute, including directions. He pulled on his jacket whilst trying to think of a way to keep Frank at the apartment, and even considered leaving without Sasha just as Sasha and Jerry returned.

Quite obviously Sasha had been crying hard and was just taking a break from it. Zeke wasted no time in letting him know, "It's okay. He's alive."

Sasha performed something of a collapse into Jerry's embrace while Jerry patted his back, his eyes darting awkwardly in Zeke's direction. They held this pose until Sasha regained his composure and pulled back, sniffling a little. "He's alive," he echoed, wiping his eyes. "He's alive."

"Yeah, and we need to go pick him up right now."

"Where is he?"

"At the police station."

"Police? What — what did he do?"

"Look, I'll explain everything in the car but we need to go."

"You know how to get there?"

"Yes."

"I'm coming too," Casey's father said before Zeke could ask or suggest an alternative.

Sasha turned to Jerry. "Baby — "

"It's okay. There's no room in the car, I know. But...I'd like to wait here if you don't mind."

Sasha bit his lip, his eyes going dark and moist. "Okay," he agreed.

They hurried out to the Mustang, Zeke automatically getting behind the wheel while Frank climbed into the back. As the car's engine roared to life, Sasha asked, "So what happened?"

"It seems that he got himself waylaid — " Zeke nearly choked on a wave of black humour. "Thomas." Just before he put the car into gear and set it in motion, he availed himself of the opportunity to point a glare at Sasha.

"Thomas," Sasha echoed, looking blank.

"Seems that Thomas had stolen himself a car. He crossed paths with Casey on his way to Yves and invited him into his crime-mobile, and of course Casey said yes."

"And then?"

"Surprisingly, Thomas wouldn't let him get out."

"For Christ's sake, Zeke, why didn't you go with him?"

Zeke tightened his grip on the steering wheel and gritted, "He was mad at me."

"So? You still should have gone."

"Did the doctor say he was never to be alone?"

"Not exactly, no — " Sasha sighed loudly. "You don't know about the stunt he pulled on Saturday night."

"Which was?"

"He slipped out while I was at work — "

"I was asleep," Frank put in from the back seat.

"And he was missing for hours. He didn't come back until after three. We were on the brink of calling the police."

Zeke's stomach did a quaky, shaky thing. "What was he doing?"

"He wouldn't say. He was all wet and dirty. Half-frozen, too."

Zeke didn't realize what his fear was about until he heard himself. "Do you think he saw anyone?"

"Of course not," Frank huffed.

But Sasha's eyes glanced off Zeke's with a self consciousness that was entirely out of character. So this was how a guilty Sasha acted. Zeke made a note of it, and to got back later when he had time and review every interaction he'd ever had with this man. His friend, supposedly.

"Or would you tell me?" Zeke said quietly.

They did the silent dance a bit longer, until Sasha said, "Zeke, don't be so angry at him."

Even while expecting an appeal on Casey's behalf, Zeke was disgusted by what he was hearing. "You'd excuse anything he did, wouldn't you?"

"I'm not excusing anything, Zeke, I'm just saying try to understand — "

"What the fuck do you think I've been doing! And you know, I've figured out that I'm never going to. I'm resigned."

"Oh, get over yourself, Zeke. We're talking about a minute's bad judgment — and he's been paying for it."

"What are you talking about?" asked the man in the back. They both ignored him.

"A moment of bad judgment? That's what you call it?"

"Well, let's not blow it out of proportion."

Zeke didn't have the luxury of a gape at Sasha just now, so he gaped out the windshield. His boyfriend fucked a stranger off the street and he was not to blow it out of proportion? He had known that Sasha didn't exactly see Casey clearly but this was beyond the rose-coloured glasses. This was a pink and purple teddy bear parade. "I can't fucking believe this," he breathed.

"You're mad that I kept it a secret from you."

Zeke shrugged, taking care to sound casual. "Nah. Why should I be mad about that? It's not exactly surprising."

"He told me in confidence, Zeke."

"Exactly."

"What should I have done, then? Run straight to you?"

Zeke hadn't intended to say much more on this subject, but here he was and here Sasha was, and there was stuff to say. "Sasha...when you think something needs to be talked about, you blab. If you thought I needed to know, you would have sat the three of us down for one of your family chats. So you didn't think I should know, I guess."

Sasha didn't seem to have a ready comeback and Zeke was actually a bit taken aback by Sasha's failure to respond. It actually hurt, this acknowledgment of what he'd been telling himself all along. Well, fuck if he wasn't getting good at admitting that. See how good he said it: You hurt me. And again —

"I really don't want to be hearing this," Frank was muttering.

"Too fucking bad," Zeke growled under his breath.

Sasha was replying, finally. "Zeke...I'm sorry, but you're right. I did think it was better if you didn't know about Thomas, because as far as I was concerned it was an isolated incident that would never happen again."

Zeke exploded, "Fuck! Why don't you quit while you're ahead?!"

Sasha shot back. "I thought you understood Casey a little better than this."

"Understand what? That's he's a fucking slut? No, I understand fuck all, because that's the way he likes it!"

"Shut up!" Frank Connor yelled at the back of his head. "Shut up! That's my son you're talking about!"

"Let me tell you about your son," Zeke hissed.

"You have nothing to say about him," Sasha declared. "Maybe if you actually tried to understand him for once — "

"Oh, you mean, I need to work harder to figure out why he does the shit he does? Like why he needs to let some other guy fuck him just to prove to himself how he's completely worthless and deserves to be alone — you think I don't get that?"

"Oh, god," whispered Casey's father.

Sasha apparently never heard him, and Zeke didn't care. "You're still upset about Roy," Sasha said, incredulous.

"I'm not talking about Roy, you moron! I'm talking about Thomas!"

"You make it sound like he actually fucked him or something — " Sasha started and broke off.

"He did — "

Then it struck Zeke that Casey had lied to one or both of them.

"At least...that's what he told me," he finished.

Sasha whispered, "He told me he came onto Thomas but nothing happened. That little shit — "

It was as though a veil that had been making everything dark and miserable and putrid for days now was lifted. You're an incredible liar, he had said to Casey and Casey had said I know, and not just because of the rightness of the statement but because he had been lying right then. Or he could have been telling the truth, maybe he had fucked Thomas and lied to Sasha. But it totally made sense, with Zeke trying to force Casey to see that Roy had victimized him and Casey refusing it, desperate to make Zeke stop saying it and start seeing him merely as a manipulative slut rather than someone who'd been traumatized because if Zeke saw that, then Casey might have to see it too. Which had been Zeke's whole point, except he'd botched it as usual. Casey had lied to him and gotten exactly what he wanted, for Zeke to forget all about seeing him as a victim. And then he could tell himself it was all exactly as he feared. He was the perfect slut, perfectly unlovable.

Because what if he was lovable, what if he was worthy of love and Roy had still done those things to him? What if he had been used and damaged and raped by someone he loved, and who might even have professed to love him back? Knowing that he was a slut and being unworthy of love would hurt far less than knowing that he had fallen in love with a monster.

Zeke pulled over. His hands were shaking too completely for safety and he had no memory of the last several minutes as far as the colour of traffic lights, or whether there were other vehicles or pedestrians on the road. None of it seemed to have existed. He was going to get someone killed, and that would be bad. "Someone else drive," he said.

Sasha looked over the headrest at Frank, then made a shooing motion for Zeke to get out, which he did. He hurried around and got in, and Sasha said, now settled in the driver's seat, "Let's go get him."

He put the car in gear and pulled away from the shoulder.

For Zeke, the rest of the trip was a blur. They arrived at the police station and the fucking dough-faced creep behind his little power podium didn't like the gays and he wanted to make a point by only letting "the father" go back to get Casey. Never mind that it was Zeke who'd been by Casey twenty-four seven for the last four months, and Frank had just suddenly grown a sense of parental obligation and was acting all caring and protective, wanting to keep his son away from these terrible men who did terrible things to his virgin ass and Zeke was going to make it his business to explain to Frank Connor one of these days, at length, exactly how Casey could tease and torment a person and then give himself over completely to any prick who was willing to absorb all that crap, how it was the only thing Casey knew how to do, bred into him and catalyzed by complete parental neglect. Then see if Frank Connor had what it took to be Casey's hero.

"I've had just about all I'm going to take from you, mister," the cop said, and Zeke raised his middle finger, knowing he was about to do something irreversible.

"Oh, yeah? Well, how about you just sit and spin — "

Of course, Sasha was trying to stop him when he heard the only voice that had any power over him right now. It said his name.

His head turned in the direction of it, matched face to voice even though the voice didn't seem right and the face wasn't right either, because they weren't filling him with the pain and confusion and rage he had come to expect. There was certainty again just like he used to feel it, in October or September, or maybe not then, maybe further back even. The end of August maybe. He just knew he had felt certainty at some point and it was back, just as this was his Casey back with him. Casey's face was pressed against him and his own hand was on Casey's neck. The skin was warm, sleek and smooth — perfect, and attached to more perfection that was all his for the taking but he didn't have to take because it had been given freely to him. No one had ever given him a real gift before except for this, from Casey.

"Zeke," said another voice that he recognized. "Let someone else have a turn."

"Fuck you," he mumbled and clutched Casey tighter for a moment before stepping back, letting him go. Casey was gone all to eyes, his whole attention on Zeke — until Sasha grabbed him from the side, perforating the first perfect moment of Zeke's recent memory.

It was then that he heard the hoots and catcalls. He scowled at some short, pot-bellied man, and then at a fellow who looked like a biker and his sneering, gum- popping female accoutrement — but it had little effect. The public at large was not about to approve. At best he and Casey were a comical display, something to comment upon and almost, if not quite, revile.

On the other hand, the police officer who had been Zeke's nemesis looked disgusted, which actually made Zeke feel pretty fucking happy. He should have kissed Casey and given the fat fucker a seizure while he was at it. Hoping for more pleasure in the same vein, he sought out the gaze of Casey's father, but found it not quite gratifying. The man just looked back with some sort of complicated stuff going on in his head, stuff that was an enigma to Zeke. There was neither hate nor revulsion.

Zeke dismissed Frank Connor, tuned in to Sasha who was attempting to give Casey a stern lecture through tearful smiles and tender touches. "I can't take anymore, I can't," he was saying. "Are you hearing me, kitten?"

"Yes," Casey replied immediately. "Sasha...Dad, I didn't mean it this time, I'm so sorry. I won't ever — ever, again. I promise."

"I know you won't," Sasha said, not quite achieving a grim tone. He shrugged and drew Casey into his patented full-body hugs. "I know."

"We need to talk," Zeke blurted.

"What's that?" Sasha said, stepping back.

"I need to talk to Casey." Zeke spoke to Sasha but watched Casey — saw his lips move silently, saw his head shake almost infinitesimally.

"Right now?" Sasha protested.

"Yeah, right now." Zeke pointed at Sasha. "You...stay put."

Sasha's brows raised but he did as he was told for once. Zeke took Casey's arm and led him somewhat aimlessly until they had found the door to the men's room.

It was a small space, considering the traffic in the building — two stalls, two urinals and there were currently at least two men occupying it, one of them standing at a urinal. Zeke didn't care who was present; he pulled Casey into an eye-to-eye configuration and without a word of preamble, he asked, "Did you fuck him?"

The man at the urinal sighed, shook his head.

"I told you nothing happened," Casey said, eyelids flickering nervously.

"I don't mean today. I mean...before. The time you told me about, did it really happen?"

"Chrissakes," interrupted the stranger. "Can't a fellow do his business in peace?"

"This is private," Zeke informed him.

"So do it somewhere private."

"If it bugs you then get out." This was punctuated by the sound of a toilet flushing. Zeke was not deterred. "Casey? I'm waiting."

"W-waiting."

"For your answer."

Casey's eyes were darting now. "I fucked him," he said.

The man at the urinal made a disgusted noise and zipped up. He walked out, followed shortly by the other man who had been in the stall, who gave them a glare as he passed. The door squeaked for a second time, and they were alone.

"Sasha says you told him you didn't, that you just came on to him but that was it."

Casey began jittering from one foot to another. "I'm s-still a slut," he declared. "I would have...would've done it. Doesn't make any difference."

"It makes a difference to me," Zeke said, his throat beginning to hurt. Unable to prevent himself, he put out a hand and squeezed Casey's shoulder. "So you lied about that."

"I l-lied to Sasha...not you."

"No, you didn't," Zeke said quietly.

"I did! I'm shit, Zeke, I'm no good you just — just don' — don' — " Casey was close to hyperventilating.

"No," Zeke said, and pulled him into his body. "Just give it up, Casey."

"But I — I — came on to him — " Casey whispered. "I would have."

"No, you wouldn't."

Casey fell silent, shaking. His chest heaved against Zeke's.

"You wouldn't have gone through with it," Zeke whispered, smoothing his hand over Casey's back. "You just like to think the worst of yourself."

"Zeke — "

"No, listen." Zeke opened up a space between them. He cupped Casey's face with a hand, stroking his face lightly with his thumbs. "Yeah, you came on to him and you did it to get back at me, to prove something, a whole bunch of reasons. Not because you wanted him."

"I — "

"Did you want him?"

Casey stared, almost tearful.

"Did you want him?" Zeke repeated, firming his voice.

Finally, there was a head shake.

"Okay." Zeke brushed at Casey's face again, wallowing in the touch of something he never thought to feel again. "I can forgive this...as long as it never happens again."

"You...forgive me?"

"Yes."

"How...? How can you...?"

"It's just the thought that you weren't with him after all, it's like there's been this...this rock in my gut and now it's gone."

"But..."

"No. No more." Zeke didn't quite know what he meant, except that he was certain that it was all going to be better now. He had the ability to forgive and still be Zeke Tyler, and Casey was still his. He'd done right, somehow, even despite himself. They'd go home and Frank would leave town and Casey would heal. They would go to therapy like Zeke had promised and someday in the future, it would be okay for them to be together.

"No more," he mouthed, and now he was mouthing it softly, breathing it between Casey's lips. It was okay, it couldn't hurt them, this tasting of sweet and sour, this melding of Casey and Zeke. Casey soft and hard and clinging and resisting, prickly and yielding, all of it at once. It was all Zeke needed, for now, and he was a romantic idiot, he supposed. He didn't care. If this was love then he was glad that he could feel it. He was not a monster, but an ordinary human being. Wherever this love business came from...it came, and that was a fact.

Gradually, he was aware that Casey had pulled back, and he seemed to be crying. He was shaking from head to foot, leaking tears.

"What? What is it, baby?" The endearment slipped out of Zeke's mouth without conscious thought. He spared an anxious moment to check, but Casey didn't seem to notice the word.

"Zeke..."

"It's okay," Zeke crooned. He lifted a hand to brush a tear away — and saw Casey twitch, almost flinch. And he remembered that wherever they were right now, in Casey's recent memory he was still a prick. "Case, I'm sorry about the things I said this morning. There was no excuse for it but I swear, I've gotten myself sorted out and I'm going to do my best not to be a prick anymore."

"I know," Casey breathed.

Zeke remained still, while every nerve itched to touch Casey, soothe him without words because that was how it worked with them. They could talk all day and get nowhere, then touch each other once and suddenly everything would have been said...but touching was restricted still. Zeke had no option but to wait for Casey to speak.

"Tell me," he said — just as the bathroom door squeaked and Casey lurched sideways, looking panicked.

"Hey," said Sasha. "Are we ready to go?"

"Yeah," Casey gulped, a bit too loudly. "Let's go...I wanna go."

Zeke watched Casey almost run out of the bathroom and shrugged to himself. Of course it was not over. This was Casey Connor he was dealing with — and he would deal. He could deal now, because Casey was still his. Everything else was irrelevant.

 

"No. No more."

This was Zeke from before, the Zeke who seemed to have eight arms and twenty hands. They were all over — Casey's face, his neck, his arm and it was all Casey could do to remain in place as Zeke gently but forcefully molested him. This was Zeke, taking what was his by right and Casey knew he owed it to him not to flinch, not to run away screaming because Zeke was so good, so perfect and strong —

But Zeke was not strong at all. Not any more. That was what Casey had done to him.

Zeke was breathing harshly as he finally pulled back, his eyes travelling over Casey as though there was nothing. Nothing but skin and bone and an empty place to fill, and Casey knew he was filth, nothing but filth. He couldn't breathe the air that Zeke was breathing. He couldn't —

"What? What is it, baby?"

He had broken Zeke. He was a horrible, disgusting creature and even Zeke knew that although he would deny it and it was totally right that Zeke be suspicious except he wasn't anymore, he forgave and he was just too good to Casey, deciding that he never would have fucked Thomas, so sweet, so innocent of Zeke. And now he wanted Casey again, he needed to seal the bargain, take back what was his.

"Zeke — " Casey choked. He'd done it — to Zeke — he'd broken —

"It's okay."

He was touching Casey again and Casey opened his mouth to scream stopitstopitstopit but of course he didn't say that. He would never say that and it wasn't Zeke's problem, he was apologizing now for what had happened as though that hadn't actually been all Casey's fault.

"Case, I'm sorry about the things I said this morning. There was no excuse for it but I swear, I've gotten myself sorted out and I'm going to do my best not to be a prick anymore."

"I know," Casey said at first opportunity.

But Zeke still knew that something was wrong. He could see through Casey as he had done before, he was gazing at Casey with so much love and understanding, it was unbearable. Zeke didn't realize what he was, how he was this thing, this monster a powerful being, Mr. Casey...crazy sex magic...no, a slut...fucking is what sluts call therapy... a slut who didn't want to be touched, who wouldn't give up the goods, he was so fucked, so fucked —

"Hey," Sasha called. "Are we ready to go?"

And Casey leapt for freedom from the bathroom. "Yeah...let's go, I wanna go."

As they were exiting the bathroom, Zeke's hand hovering, sometimes touching Casey's back, the thought came and as though he had been brainwashed to it but he didn't care, he needed... Yves. I need to talk to her now.

He asked of Zeke, "Did you call Yves?"

"Yes," Zeke replied. "I let her know you would call her as soon as possible."

Casey didn't just want to call her. He needed to see her. He'd never wanted into her office so badly.

They walked out into the day which was more wet and fogged than ever, and to Zeke's car which was parked a block or two down the street. Casey couldn't wait to get into it, into the safety and isolation of the back seat even if his father would be sharing it with him — but in an unprecedented move, Zeke climbed into the back with Casey and almost immediately put his hand on Casey's knee.

"Sasha," Casey said.

"Yes, kitten."

He raised his voice to be heard over the engine. "Can we stop at Yves' building?"

"Right now? Couldn't you just phone her when you get home."

"I guess..."

Zeke's hand moved up Casey's thigh, claiming his territory inch by inch. "I'm sure she doesn't expect you to do that now," he said.

"I want to," Casey blurted, and shook off the hand by compressing his body into the smallest shape possible.

"Well, I don't see why not..." Sasha said, checking the rearview mirror. Casey caught his eyes briefly.

"Yeah," he agreed quickly. "Please, I'd like to do that."

"What if she's busy?"

"I'll wait."

"I'll wait with you," Zeke said, and Casey wanted to cry. He needed to talk to his shrink without Zeke present, and it hurt to know it. "But can't it wait until tomorrow?" Zeke said, stroking his neck briefly.

"No," Casey answered. He shifted none too subtly, he was sure, into the furthest corner of the back seat, scrunching his neck. He could feel Zeke's hurt radiating across.

"Okay," Sasha said.

"Maybe I should go with them," Casey's father said in a somewhat low voice, seemingly for Sasha's ears only.

"That's not necessary," Zeke snapped.

As he pulled out into mid-afternoon traffic, Sasha was chuckling to himself, loud enough to be heard throughout the vehicle and even if it was restrained and private, Casey recognized a much happier Sasha, a Sasha who was overjoyed that his friends had, as far as he knew at least, made amends. As long the aforesaid two were never alone in a compromising position, the romantic in Sasha would be satisfied — while Casey was afraid that he was really not a romantic at all. His entire consciousness was on Zeke's body, on keeping a safe margin between them. And Zeke would leave him for sure because he had jerked him around and made him jealous and it was totally understandable that he wanted to remind me who I belong to and I won't stop him if he really tries but I can't, I can't I can't he'll leave, but I can't do it I don't want him I don't I don't

"Case," Zeke whispered. In the front, Sasha and Casey's father were talking about something pointless and innocuous, just like old friends which was surreal in and of itself. "What's wrong?"

"Nuh-nothing."

Sasha glanced over his shoulder. "What's wrong, kitten?"

"Nothing!"

Zeke grasped his hand. With a supreme effort, Casey didn't yank it away. He forced himself to edge an inch closer to Zeke, his body shuddering while his soul screamed don't let him go don't let him let you go don't fuck it up —

The hand crawled up his arm.

What do you want?

"Make it all stop," Casey begged. He was exhausted, tired, hungry, strained.

You bet said the voice, and undid the snap on Casey's jeans and soon Casey was blind with Roy making all stop. Or Zeke. Or Roy. He didn't know, god he was fucked up and soon he would be alone god why wouldn't the hands just leave him alone why did they have to crush him closer? He tried not to throw up or scream as revulsion skittered across his skin.

"Casey."

"Don't..."

Don't let go, don't touch me.

"We're here," Sasha announced.

Casey blinked, saw Zeke's face up close, staring at him in open concern. He swallowed, his throat painfully dry. He could barely wait until Sasha moved so they could climb out of the car and then he moved directly towards the stairs, not looking to see if Zeke was behind him. He heard a brief exchange of conversation.

"... you won't leave him alone..."

"Never."

"You talked...what did he say...?"

Zeke's voice went low.

"Thank god."

"Something like that."

"Don't let him take off by himself again."

"...won't."

"I'm trusting you..."

"...thanks..."

"...know what I mean..."

Casey opened the door to Yves' office, went in. He kicked off his boots in the front hall but left his coat on. He was chilled through and didn't want to take it off. He tugged it closer, trying to feel warm.

"Case...wait," he heard behind him but he couldn't wait. He plunged through the glass door.

The secretary was in her place behind the desk, well-turned out and seemingly busy as always, and he still couldn't remember her name even though he'd heard Yves say it. He walked up and didn't let her finish her greeting. "I need to see her," he gasped.

The woman half-frowned, trying her best to look conciliatory. "I'm sorry, Casey, " she said. "She's booked until four and then she's supposed to be done for the day."

"But...I need her."

Zeke had come quietly up beside him. "Does she have any free time at all?" he asked.

"Well..."

"Please," Casey said.

"Is it an emergency?"

Casey looked up at Zeke, who nodded. "Yes," Casey replied, pretty certain that he was lying. An emergency probably should have involved potential bloodshed and death, and this wasn't that.

"Okay, how about you have a seat. When this session's done, which will be in about twenty minutes, I'll go in and talk to her. Can you wait twenty minutes, Casey?"

He nodded, turning jerkily to sit in one of the chairs. He pulled his feet up and rested his head on his knees. He heard Zeke say, "Thanks." He felt Zeke settle beside him and he wished he was alone in a room that belonged just to him, with his journal and a TV and a stack of DVD's. No, no movies, he couldn't sit still, he couldn't rest and he didn't really want to be alone what was he thinking he wasn't thinking that and shit, but he needed to talk to Yves.

"Hey," Zeke said, low-voiced, and nudged him. "You wanna hear about Los Angeles?"

Zeke was being wonderful and kind, trying to distract him — Casey got that. "Okay," he said. "Sure."

"We went out to Santa Monica the first day." Zeke paused, continued. "It was gorgeous. Didn't see any movie stars, though. But you know who I did see?"

"Hmm."

"My mother. Seems Jacob had a moment of inspiration and invited her to the wedding."

Casey knew he was expected to respond, so he did. "Were you...pissed?"

"Fuck, yeah, I was pissed. But I made nice, don't worry. I even gave her my phone number."

"You did?" Casey was surprised.

"To get her to promise to get off Jacob's back, yeah. So she's probably going to call at some point but don't worry, it won't be for a few months."

"I'm not worried."

Zeke was conspicuously quiet. Then he cleared his throat and said, "You know, we could just come back tomorrow."

Every cell in Casey's brain screamed that he should agree, surrender, submit. "No," he blurted.

"All right, then."

"You can — I mean, you don't have to wait."

"Oh, no," Zeke refused. "I'm not falling for that. I said I'm not taking my eyes off you and I meant it."

"You'll have to take your eyes off me sometime," Casey said, without thinking.

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah. I know what you mean."

Again, there was silence.

"Anyway," Zeke continued. "I thought you wanted me to come with you here."

Casey got caught. He waited too long and then the pause was noticeable and it just became more difficult to make himself answer. "I...I do," he said. "But..."

"But?"

"Not...right away...I mean not at...at first."

Zeke said nothing, and continued to say nothing, and twenty minutes became very, very long. Casey hugged himself as small as he could and wished that Zeke might forget he was there, an impossibility to be sure.

At last, he saw a woman emerge from the hallway. She gave him a non- committal smile as she passed, just a friendly I don't know you but I'm acknowledging you as most likely a decent person. Meanwhile, the receptionist had gone off down the hall. She was in for a long time. Finally she came out and also gave Casey a smile — but she said nothing as Casey followed her with his eyes. She went to her desk and sat and he was very close to standing up and chasing himself around the room in circles, waving his arms and screaming. He imagined that would make quite an impression.

"Casey."

It was Yves herself, standing in her usual place, wearing her usual expression. "Dr. Yves," he gasped. He got up, but Zeke beat him to her.

"Zeke," she said, sounding a trifle surprised. "Well, would you both like to come in?"

Casey had long since given up on anything else happening so he said nothing, taking a step forward.

"No," Zeke said. "I'll wait out here."

"Are you sure?"

"Casey doesn't want me in there," Zeke said, and Casey could hear his anger and hurt. It was clear and sharp. "He wants to talk to you alone."

Yves looked to Casey, who was utterly paralyzed. He didn't want Zeke to see or hear it. He couldn't make himself say it...but he thought he might have nodded a little.

"All right," Yves said. "But you'll be out here, right?"

"I'm not going anywhere."

That was for Casey, letting him know that Zeke would be sticking to him like alien goo. Casey followed Yves in without a word, his eyes wallowing in all the familiarity. There were his friends the owl, the lynx, the eagle, there was his beloved chair...oh, yes, his chair. He fell into it and curled up, trying to still the thing within him that wanted out. A mondo panic attack was on its way — or not a panic attack, something else, just a something almost as big and — no, bigger. It was bigger. He was going to die, or something worse.

"Help me," he begged. "Help me."

"Help you?" Yves echoed. It sounded wrong. He lifted his head and realized that she was right next to him, kneeling so she was eye-to-eye with him. "Of course, that's my job, Casey, but I need you to help me first."

"How?"

"You need to fill me in on what's been happening, for a start. Why didn't you show up this morning?"

"I got kidnapped."

"What?"

He lifted his eyes and appealed for clemency. "You aren't mad?"

She made a bit of a face. "No."

"You won't go?"

‘No, Casey." She straightened slowly. "I am a bit too old to kneel down on the floor like this, though." She hunted around and dragged the matching chair to Casey's over near to him. She had never sat this close before but he didn't have time to wonder about it. "Okay, now tell me how you were kidnapped."

"I...was...on my way here and I ran into my friend, Thomas. He had a car and he kept saying ‘get in' and I wanted to tell him not to mess with Zeke and...to say goodbye but mostly stay away from Zeke but when I got in he drove off and wouldn't stop to let me out and I knew he wouldn't hurt me, you know — "

"Breathe, Casey."

"But I couldn't get out and I was scared of how he was driving."

"What did he want?"

"He wanted me to come with him to Portland."

"Why?"

"I don't know, he just did." Casey rubbed his eyes. "He...sort of likes me."

"And that was all?"

"He — he wanted to have sex at one point but then he kind of forgot. He's sick, Dr. Yves. I don't know what it is but he's sick. He never would have hurt me on purpose. When — when I came on to him before he was so — so kind and understanding. He said he was much too old for me and I was just using him for revenge and he didn't want to be a part of that."

"He does sound wise."

"But then right after that he really seemed to lose it. He was living on the street, always in the same suit and he was sleeping in his car before that."

"Casey, I don't know what Thomas' issues are, but I feel fairly certain that you're not responsible. Is this why you're so upset?"

"No," Casey gulped. "It's — it's — "

"What is it?"

"I can't..."

"Okay, then finish telling me about what happened."

"I...I said let me drive and he did because he could see I was scared... and I noticed there was no gas so I said let's pull over. He asked me not to run away, to stay with him...and I knew I was already late and you probably would lock me up so I said okay. I thought...I thought he needed me."

"Go on."

"I filled the gas tank while he went in to pay...except he didn't have any money. He tried to steal some sodas and the clerk chased him...he said ‘get in the car' and I said ‘no' so he took off in the car and...then...the people jumped on me and I panicked. I tried to fight them."

"Did you hurt anyone?"

"No, they hurt me, Dr. Yves."

"All right," she said, with a slight smile.

"I kind of zoned...and when I woke up the police were there and they told me it was a stolen car Thomas had."

"Did they charge you?"

"No, this cop, he was okay... I think he believed me. He let me call home and they came and got me..." Casey sucked a breath. "... and that's why I missed our appointment."

"Well," Yves said.

"I really meant to be here."

"I know, Casey. But maybe we should have a talk about some of the more reckless things that you do."

"Okay, okay..." Casey babbled, "but I already swore I'm not going to do that stuff anymore... I mean, I had Zeke and Sasha and my dad so upset and worried I'm lucky they're even speaking to me."

"And on that note..." Yves observed. "Is Zeke...speaking to you?"

"Yes...well, maybe not right now..." Casey hunched all over again. "Oh, god!"

"What, Casey?"

"I don't know what to do. I'm afraid to go home."

"Why would you be afraid?"

Casey couldn't be still. He rocked and jittered, half-expecting Yves to put a hand on him to stop him, and dreading it. He couldn't endure that.

"Casey? Why are you afraid to go home?"

He buried his face, blurted, "I'm afraid to go home with Zeke!"

"Go on," she said only.

"H-he's going to — he'll want to fuck and I won't stop him and then he'll be broken and I'll die and it'll all be fucked up forever!"

There was an unmistakable pause.

"That's a pretty extreme statement, Casey."

"It's the truth. I'm telling you the truth."

"And I appreciate it, and we need to do a lot of unpacking to understand the specific problems we're dealing with."

"Kay."

"I really, really think it would be a good idea to have Zeke in here with us."

"No!"

"This concerns Zeke and it has a lot to do with what he thinks and feels, don't you think it would be better to have him here to tell you what he thinks instead of guessing and assuming?"

"No...no, I can't, I can't say this to him now."

"Do you grant it would be a legitimate goal, though?"

Casey nodded fervently. "Yes, of course, but..."

"But what?"

"There's stuff he won't understand."

"Zeke's pretty smart, though."

"Yes."

"He's capable of understanding a lot."

"Yes, of course, but I don't mean that, I mean...he'll hate me."

"You see, Casey, this is exactly why we need Zeke here. I'm sure he'd much rather tell you himself how he feels."

I hate you, Casey. I never want to see you again.

Yeah, that would be really beneficial for him to hear.

"Okay," Yves sighed. "Let's go back for a second." She reached for her box of tissues, straining a little and offered it to Casey. He took one, bemused, and held it. Or perhaps he had been crying, he didn't know. "Casey?"

"Yes."

"You're with me?"

"Yes."

"You said you were afraid to go home, let's unravel that a bit. Why are you afraid?"

He couldn't quite meet her eyes.

"Zeke's going to fuck me," he said.

"You think that's his intention right now?"

"He doesn't intend to, but..."

She waited.

"... I know," Casey finished. "That it'll happen."

"How do you know?"

"From the way he looks."

"How does he look."

"Like he needs to prove something, like..." like I'm the only thing in the world that's truly his but I can't tell her that it's for Zeke "...like he's hungry."

"But didn't he say that he didn't want to have any sex for a while?"

"Yes," Casey gulped.

"And?"

"And...it won't stick."

Yves was quiet. Casey dared a look and saw her brows furrowed slightly.

"I don't make much sense," he admitted.

"I'm just a little confused, Casey. Recently you told me you want sex all the time. Doesn't it follow that you'd be happy, if indeed Zeke is ready to break his promise?"

The feelings swirled, choking the words.

"Well, Casey?"

"I..."

"What?"

"Can't...put it all together."

"You don't have to. Just let me hear it."

He shook his head.

"Just some of it?" she urged.

"I don't know."

"Just try."

He thought it best to get some air first. "It's...it's like..." Fuck it wasn't that he didn't have the words, it was just that they couldn't be spoken. They were not to be spoken, they were the refusal, the beginning of disaster even if okay so yeah it was already disaster these days there were still worse and greater disasters. "It's...I..."

"Yes?"

Everything was still and quiet, so he just said it: "I don't say no."

"To whom?"

"Everyone. Anyone."

"I've heard you say no many times, Casey. You said it a minute or two ago."

"I mean...I don't say no...to sex."

"In this case, sex with Zeke."

He nodded.

"Are you telling me that there would be times when you wanted to say no and you didn't?"

"No."

"Then I'm a bit baffled, Casey."

He made himself look at her. "Dr. Yves... I don't ever let myself think no because if I do... I'll be alone. And I want to feel that..." so pure so complete white and clean blinding white but he was in pieces, his voice falling to pieces. "But it's not enough...anymore...it doesn't feel... good...enough...if...if...he touches m-me... I'll die... but I know I won't s-stop him..." His chest hitched and heaved. He was sobbing but not crying, maybe about to throw up. I want him to...I want him... "but if that happens...I'm afraid...don't know what it'll do to him...and me."

A warm touch descended on his shoulder. She gripped it firmly. "I have to agree," she said. "That sounds like a situation you want to avoid."

"Sorry I'm so... I can't talk."

"You're doing fine."

"Feel like I'm gonna puke."

"I have a trash can," she replied, smiling a bit. "But try not to, okay?" With a last squeeze she removed her hand. "Casey, I want to ask you something."

"Kay."

"Do you love Zeke?"

He went cold inside, then hot, then cold — or maybe he just couldn't tell. Maybe he just wasn't capable of feeling anything real. He whispered, "I don't know."

She nodded. "What do you feel about him?"

"Like I want him," he returned with a slight feeling of defiance. "I just...want him with me...or I did."

"You're not sure?"

"I'm not sure of anything, okay?"

"Fair enough," she replied mildly. "What else do you feel for Zeke?"

"I feel...we'll always be connected...because of the aliens."

"All right. What else?"

"I don't want to hurt him. That's a good thing, right?"

"What do you think?"

"It's a good thing."

"Yes," she agreed. "Has Zeke said he loves you?"

"I know he needs me."

"In what way?"

"For — for sex."

"And that's all?"

He felt chastised. "No. That's not all."

"Tell me, Casey."

"He — he doesn't really have friends or family...besides me. I mean, he does have his parents and all but he doesn't really count on them. He doesn't count on anyone except himself. He's incredibly strong...except..."

"Except...?"

"I make him feel not strong. I make him weak."

"Do you really think that's true?"

"It is to him." Casey hung his head. "Today he forgave me for Thomas."

"Oh?"

"He found out that we never actually fucked. I lied to him about that."

"And you lied to me."

Casey glanced up. "I never said I fucked Thomas."

"But you didn't tell me that Zeke thought you did either."

"It doesn't matter, does it? I did a wrong thing with Thomas, I wanted him to fuck me, fuck the slut — "

"None of that, Casey. It's too easy and it's not going to turn me away. You might as well stop it."

"I wanted Thomas to fuck me."

"Are you so sure you would have gone through with it?"

"Yes. Zeke thinks I wouldn't but I know I would have."

"All right, but the fact is, it didn't happen and we're glad it didn't happen, right? And Zeke is very, very glad it didn't happen, so much that he forgave you for the flirtation. That's what you meant, right?"

He was stricken. "He said he forgave me. He isn't acting angry anymore."

"Oh, I believe you're right, Casey. I just wanted to get everything straight as to where we're at."

"Oh."

"Am I right, then, that it's Zeke's forgiveness that's triggered this crisis?"

"Yes," he said, astounded by her ability to understand him. "Yes — because he wants me now, he can't stop touching me. If we go home...something terrible will happen."

"Something terrible...like sex?"

"No. That's not the terrible part."

"Why won't you just say that you don't want sex, Casey."

"Because it's not true."

"You want sex but you don't want him — or anyone else — to touch you."

"Yes!" he sobbed. "I feel like I'll go insane but I'll go insane without him."

"Forgive me, Casey, but it sounds to me like what you really want is some alone time."

"No."

"It's all right to want to be alone, Casey. Even the most sociable people — "

"No!" he shouted.

" — to be alone from time to time."

He screamed it: "I don't want to be alone!"

She looked back at him calmly.

"I can't — be — alone."

She looked some more. She waited.

"I won't," he spat. "I will not. I won't."

"I hear you, Casey. But I think maybe you need to learn how to do it."

He stared, seeing how absolutely unsurprised and unthreatened she was by him, and he felt the tears start. It was grief and it was anger, the kind where all gestures were eventually used up and rescinded and there was nothing left to do but cry from rage. Because he had always left Casey alone. Alone to deal with the shit, all the fucking shit and the fear, always scared, always hurt, facing down everything fucking everything out there, always by himself. He fucking hated him and he was so tired. "I — I need — " he wept.

"Yes, Casey?"

"I don't know." He wiped his face with his sleeve. "I don't want to screw up anymore."

"I don't know what you mean by screw up."

"To not hurt Zeke anymore...not hurt anyone anymore."

"Well, let's think about solutions. How can we address this problem of being with Zeke and not knowing how to be with Zeke?"

"I don't know," he lied.

"Casey."

"I don't."

"I think you do. You just don't want to say."

He clutched at the cuffs of his pants, holding his limbs in close. He did know — he did, and he couldn't and — and — god, fuck he couldn't, but he had to be alone you need to be alone, Casey. He gulped, "Don't make me say it."

"But it's good for you," she cracked and he looked up at her, stunned. Despite the cruel-sounding words, her face was neutral but kind, disinterested but concerned. "It does make a difference to speak things out loud, Casey. It makes them real — but I think you already know that."

He shook his head helplessly, blurted, "I...I can't say it to Zeke."

"What if I helped you?"

"I don't know.

"Think about it, Casey. Imagine being with someone when you've learned not to be afraid of not being with them. Don't you think that's worth trying for?"

He wanted to cry again — with simultaneous gratitude and resentment. "I know what you're saying. I just...just... What if you're wrong?"

"It isn't about me being right or wrong, Casey. You know what feels right for you to do — you always have, you're just — "

"Scared," he supplied.

"Well, yes. Understandably."

"Stubborn...stupid..."

"Not stupid. No more of that, Casey. Not with me."

He looked up at her suddenly, wishing that he brave enough, whole enough to be force his way past her reserve and touch her — to truly want to touch her, even, because he didn't actually have the ability or the strength to touch anyone right now. But he wanted so much to be whole, and that had to be worth something. "You — I — I don't know what I'd do without — I mean, if you — "

A slight smile cracked Yves' habitual, calm mask. "You're welcome." The doctor got to her feet, seeming to towering over him, to have grown immeasurably in stature over the past several days, the weeks, immense with the power of everything that she knew and understood. "Now, shall we get Zeke in here?"

Casey nodded. Someday, he would be able to hug her and say a perfectly straightforward thank you for making me do this — but not this day. Someday, years from now maybe, he would be able to touch someone without it hurting.

 

"I don't want to be alone!" It was the only noise Zeke had heard and it pelted down the hall, launching Zeke to his feet momentarily, with a racing heart.

Not that it took any major outbursts to figure it out, but something was going on that he needed be involved with. He'd been sitting in this fucking chair for far too long but he knew that if he burst into that room it would be a serious transgression on Casey's space.

Except what if it wasn't really Casey's space? What if it was Yves' space and Yves' alone and she was bullying and frightening Casey into a path he didn't want to take? Completely well-intentioned about it of course, he did accept that much as the truth about her. Unlike that fucker Spadoni, or his mother, he would not allow them good intentions, and as for his father...well, Jacob was just completely fucked up in the application. Zeke would forgive him, but not expect anything from him. That was fair, just like it had felt absolutely right to forgive Casey. If he had actually fucked Thomas — well, that had been another matter. It was no longer about capitulation on something he just couldn't tolerate, it was something he could understand. Casey had wanted to flirt with disaster, but if Thomas hadn't been smart enough to decline — to see that he was being used — there was no certainty that Casey would have gone through with it. He always thought the worst of himself but there was a level-headedness that rescued him even in his worst moments.

Yeah, Zeke was in a pretty magnanimous mood so he could even almost excuse Thomas. The man was ill, it was true, but then on the other hand he'd exposed Casey to all sorts of danger today — physical, legal, emotional. The man would have to be held accountable for that.

Fuck if he didn't need to get in that fucking room.

"Zeke?"

He almost didn't look because it so patently could be what he thought he was hearing. They didn't want to hear from him But he did look, eventually, expecting to see Yves and of course it was Yves.

"Would you be willing to come in and join us, Zeke?"

"Would I be willing?" he echoed. "Yeah, I'd be willing. Does Casey want me?"

She answered with a steady look.

He got up from his chair and let her lead him in. He had no delusions about what was happening. Whatever it was, he wasn't going to like it but it wouldn't get the better of him. He was going to win this time.

Casey was simply a wreck, his eyes red, his skin both pale and splotchy. He looked at Zeke with an expression that was openly pleading, and looked away quickly. But it was nothing less than Zeke expected.

"Have a seat, Zeke," said Yves pleasantly.

He took the chair nearest to Casey and waited for her to take her usual distant place behind her desk. She didn't. She dragged her own chair around to the front of the desk, pulling it fairly close to him and Casey. He tried a stare to see if she would back up. It didn't work.

"It's good to see you again," Yves remarked. She was not holding her notebook. Clearly, the time for strategizing was over. It was the real game now. No more practice.

"Yeah," he said, waiting.

"It's been quiet a while. I think, to start, I could really use an update."

"Hasn't Casey been keeping you up on current events?"

"More or less. But I haven't heard them from your perspective, Zeke. I think that's important for Casey, too...don't you agree, Casey?"

Casey's head jerked. His eyes darted furtively at Zeke. "Yes," he mumbled.

Zeke figured he could start with an act of generosity. "I don't think we need to rehash it all. I mean...I'm not angry at Casey now although he probably thinks I am."

"Actually, he told me you've forgiven him."

Zeke stared at Casey, who resolutely kept his head averted.

"Is that true, Zeke? Have you forgiven him?"

"What am I supposed to have forgiven him for?"

"You don't know?"

"I do know. I just want to be sure that we're all on the same page. He lies, you know."

That got Casey to move, to face Zeke. It was almost a glare.

"That's not a very forgiving thing to say," Yves remarked.

"It's reality."

"Casey? What do you think about that?"

Casey, it seemed, wasn't going to do his normal, silent routine — but then he was speaking. "He's still angry at me."

Zeke rolled his eyes. "Yeah, okay. I'm feeling a little pissed because I've been cooling my heels in the waiting room for an hour while the two of you talked about me and I don't like that. I'm sorry."

"Is that the only thing you're angry about, Zeke?" Yves asked.

"Regarding the world in general, or just regarding Casey?"

Yves mouth quirked slightly. "Let's just stick to Casey."

With a shake of his head, Zeke decided to backpedal. "Do we have to do this now? It's been a helluva day and I'm tired. I really just wanted to go home and relax but he started freaking out in the car. That was why we came here. I don't want to make this about me."

"But we're here now, Zeke. We might as well get things on the table."

"You know, Dr. Yves, I'm pretty self-aware. I'm used to figuring things out on my own."

"Well, then...why don't you share with us what you've figured out."

There was a moment of unanticipated, rich sympathy for Casey, at having to be trapped in a room with this woman for two hours a week. No, five hours a week now. That calm reasoning voice could feel worse than a beating.

"Okay," he sighed. "Here it is... I don't like being left out of things. I don't like that Casey goes here without me in the first place and I especially don't like it when he chooses to tell you about the aliens without talking to me."

"That was my choice!" Casey burst in suddenly, staring straight out and not at Zeke, "You even said so!"

"I was just trying to be nice. I didn't mean it."

"So I don't have a choice?"

"No! Not about that! Not without talking to me, because I have a stake in this too!"

Casey chose this moment to look at him, stabbing him through with accusation. "Nothing bad would ever happen to you."

Zeke was stopped, just long enough to think that maybe this was the time for a quite well-earned apology. All the soul-searching and the going head-to-head with Roy and the arguing with parents wasn't much more than mental masturbation if he didn't turn it to some functional purpose.

"Casey," he gritted. "I'm...I know I screwed up back then. I left you hanging — we all did but especially me, and I'm sorry. I formally, wholeheartedly apologize. Okay?"

Casey stared at him with his reddened eyes. "Okay," he mouthed.

"But that isn't what I mean when I say I have a stake."

"What...what do you mean?"

"I have a stake in what happens to you, Casey. I don't want any repeats of three years ago...or last summer. I can't have that."

"Why, Zeke?" Yves asked quietly. "Why can't you have that?"

Zeke found that he had to address the answer to Yves.

"I suppose it's not a secret," he told her. "I love him, and I'm obsessed with him, and I just happen to be a possessive sort. It's pretty straightforward."

She was smiling openly. "I've never heard anyone describe love as straightforward."

"Yeah...it's not. It makes me crazy, actually. But I'm trying hard not to act crazy, all the time."

"And how's that going?"

"Not very well."

She nodded. "But you don't think Casey should have told me about the aliens."

"No. It turned out okay but it just as easily might not have. It almost didn't." And Zeke swallowed an overwhelming rush of bitterness to recall once more Frank Connor's part in all of this.

"That's true," Yves admitted. "Casey, what do you think about what Zeke's saying?"

"Which part," Casey muttered, obviously ducking the question. It was apparent to Zeke that he had plenty of thoughts about it.

"The part where he said you had no choice, for instance."

A burning bolt of resentment was fired directly at Zeke's face, and then just as quickly all guns were withdrawn. "I don't want to say."

"Casey, you want to be able to have an honest conversation with Zeke, don't you?"

"Not necessarily."

Zeke snorted.

"I'm a liar anyway. That's what he told you...and it's true. I lie all the time."

"Why do you lie?"

"Because it's necessary."

"Necessary for what?" Zeke burst in. "I can't have people lying to me, Casey. I don't take it well."

"No one wants to be lied to," Yves said mildly.

"Yes, yes they do!" Casey gasped. "They do...they don't want to know if you're...if you're hurt or — or you got beat up or you want things you're not supposed to want — or if you just want to be left alone — " He seemed to have run out of air, as well as words.

"But what would happen if you tell them these things?"

"They'd leave me." Casey's head drooped slightly. "But then, they leave anyway, when they find out."

"So what does that suggest to you, Casey?"

Casey's head lifted. "I know what answer you want but I don't believe it."

"Well," Yves replied easily. "Be honest, Casey. What do you believe?"

"I believe that no matter what I do I'll end up alone."

"Would it be so bad, to be alone?"

"Yes."

"Why? You just said something about wanting to be left alone...but I suppose you meant alone in a different sense then."

"Yeah."

"What does that feel like?"

Casey hunched a little. "I don't want to say right now."

"Okay," Yves granted. She looked to Zeke, prompting without a word.

"Casey," he started, calling upon all his resources in order to sound patient, not scare Casey. "I don't care if you tell me something I don't want to hear, I want to be able to argue with you! You know me, Case, you know I like to debate. I need you to call me on my bullshit like Sasha does." Zeke pulled a grin despite himself. "It's good for me."

"But then you'll get angry."

"Of course, I will. How else am I supposed to react?"

"I don't like it," Casey whispered.

"Oh, come on! I'm always going off about something. It doesn't mean that I don't like you."

Something happened — Casey turned to him and his eyes were bright. "You like me."

"Fuck. Yeah." Zeke was puzzled unto desperation. Right now his face must be like the absolute representation of a psychic head-scratching. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't like you."

Casey blinked hard. "But I...um..."

Yves intervened gently, "Can you explain what you mean by ‘like', Casey?"

"I know what he means," Zeke said, "and I would have thought it went without say — "

"Zeke," Yves hushed him. "Let Casey explain it."

Feeling ten years old, Zeke shut up.

"Casey?"

"It's..." Casey swallowed visibly. "I don't know if you like me...I mean, if you didn't want to have sex with me or you — you didn't feel guilty."

"Guilty about what?"

"Zeke," Yves chastised.

"Sorry."

" — would you want to be in my presence at all? Would you want to talk to me or is it just the way I look...or the way I fuck?"

Zeke couldn't believe what he was hearing. "How can you think that? For four months I've spent every free minute with you."

"Except when you were with Winona."

"I had to go to school, Casey."

"But you were with her sometimes when you could have been with me."

"Because I wanted to be with you."

"Huh?"

"I knew I was obsessed with you, Casey, and I thought it would be good for me — good for both of us — if I had other friends."

"So you hung out with her on purpose because you wanted to hang out with me."

"Yes. Absolutely."

Casey shook his head angrily.

Zeke said, "I can't believe you'd think that I don't like you."

"You haven't said you do."

"I just said I want to spend every waking minute with you!" Zeke bellowed, not minding a bit when Casey jumped.

Yves amended, "You just said you were obsessed, Zeke. Is that the same thing?"

"It isn't enough to love someone?"

"Is love the same as obsession?"

"Yes," Zeke snapped. "I think it is."

"Casey? What do you think?"

Casey was avoiding Zeke. "Yes," he whispered.

"And what about obsession and liking? Are they the same?"

"No."

"What's the difference?"

The eyes turned towards Zeke. "When the obsession ends, you're alone."

"The obsession's not going to end," Zeke argued. "That's why it's obsession."

"I have to disagree with that, Zeke," Yves said. "But we don't need to settle that issue. The issue is that Casey has asked for something from you."

"To say if I like him."

"Yes."

"See, I think he should know the answer to that."

"But there's no harm in saying it then, is there?"

Zeke stared at the side of Casey's face and saw his jaw working. Okay, then. This was important to Casey, so he would do it, even if it was stupid.

"All right," he said. "I realize I'm being difficult. Casey, I like you big time. I like your sense of humour and the way your brain works even though it drives me crazy sometimes... I like how you just don't give a damn about what people think of you and how you can be so incredibly generous with your family...I like hearing you go off about this movie or that movie, and I love hearing you argue. I liked you long before we got together." Zeke coughed, feeling the blaze of self-consciousness on his cheeks. "That wasn't easy."

"No," Yves agreed. "But good for you." She looked to Casey. "So, Casey. Do you believe him?"

Casey nodded, gazing at Zeke with glistening eyes.

"How did we get started on this?" Zeke asked, needing a distraction.

Yves wore a pensive expression. She hadn't been taking notes but she said confidently, "We were talking about the things that made you angry. You mentioned aliens and that you felt Casey should have listened to you and not told me and I asked Casey what he thought about that."

"Oh. Right."

"So, Casey? What do you think? Are you ready to talk to Zeke now?"

Zeke didn't think Casey would tell him anything he didn't already know, but he kept his mouth shut.

"Zeke," Casey whispered.

"Yes, Casey?"

"I...need to move out."

Zeke honestly thought he heard wrong. "What's that?" he said.

"Out of the apartment. I need to move out."

It became totally silent. In one tiny part of his mind, Zeke had the impression that Yves was shocked stupid but as for the majority, the part of his brain that really counted, he knew that she was responsible for this. She had set this up, planted the idea and bullied Casey into saying it. There was no question.

"Right," Zeke said. "You know, it's been a really tough day. Let's go home, Casey."

He got to his feet and waited for Casey to follow. Casey merely looked pleadingly up at him.

"Zeke, I need to move out," he repeated.

"No, you don't, and we really don't need to discuss it at all." He held out a hand to Casey. "Come on."

"Zeke," Yves said. "I don't think it's time to go yet."

He whirled on her. "This is all your show, isn't it? I heard him yell all the way out there! Were you working on him the whole time, getting him to say that? Well, forget it, lady! He's coming home with me and he's staying there!"

"We need to talk about this, Zeke."

"There's nothing to talk about. I know this scene already, you see. I already had one shrink explain to me how I'm bad for Casey and I knew at some point it would happen here too... but all of you don't seem to get something. I don't need your help, I can take care of him just fine. I'm the one who knows what he needs."

"Zeke," Yves said softly.

"You put him up to this."

"No, Zeke. It was his idea."

"Shut up!"

"Casey, you need to explain to Zeke what you explained to me."

"There's nothing to explain!" Zeke shouted. "We're not having sex, we're not sleeping in the same bed or even in the same fucking room!"

"It won't stick," Casey blurted.

"What?"

"If we — it won't stick."

"What do you fucking mean? That I can't stick to my promises?"

Casey shook his head. "No."

Zeke let his legs give way. He crumbled into his chair and laughed hollowly, helplessly.

"We'd fuck tonight," Casey said. "I know it. I could tell by the way you looked at me and touched me."

Zeke laughed again. "This is fucked up."

Suddenly, Casey was touching him, fingers plucking at him like the brush of an anxious little ghost. "It is fucked up, Zeke. It is — please, that's why I need to do it."

Zeke yanked his arm away. "No, that's why we need to stop having sex, which we did."

"But sooner or later we would — "

"That's what you think."

"I know."

"I had no idea your opinion of me was this low."

"It's not about that, it's just — "

"Just — just what? You don't believe I can control my cock? And since when is that a problem for you? The last time we talked about this you were begging for it!"

"You do hate me."

"I don't fucking hate you!"

"Then why do say things like that!" Casey screamed.

"Because I'm mad and I'm hurt!"

"Exactly — it's fucked up, Zeke, and it's going to get more fucked up if we live together."

"Well, not living together isn't an option."

"Why?"

"Because I need to keep an eye on you."

"Fuck you!" Casey sobbed. "You aren't allowed to do that."

"Do what?"

"You say we're not having sex but we're still together but oh, by the way, I'm going to L.A. and you're going home, Casey — and we're still together and I'm watching you but no sex! I can't do that! I can't be like that or I'll go crazy. You can't have it all your way."

"So... you'd rather say it's over, is that it?"

"No."

"I think you do. Because that's basically what you mean. Go ahead and say it, Casey."

"No."

"Okay, fine. I don't need this crap. It's over."

He got up and walked out, with Casey's pathetic, imploring noises and Yves' calm remonstrations fluttering around him like so many pests. Things easily swatted. Shortly his feet hit the pavement and he was walking, or running maybe, all he knew was that the sound of his footsteps was accompanied by one word that kept time — it boomed, it roared, it sounded the apocalypse repeatedly in his head.

Over... over... over... over...

Time did a peculiar, telescoping thing. He didn't know how long he'd been walking, what he'd been thinking or if he'd thought anything. His feet were sore and his jaw ached and he wasn't entirely sure where he was. It was night and he was on a street, a sidewalk. Nothing was quite familiar but as he wandered a bit further and looked at street signs, he realized that he could be home in less than an hour if he wanted.

Not that he did. Not that he even had a home.


	11. Chapter 11

The door didn't make the sound that Casey was expecting, didn't slam and shatter into a million, razor-sharp splinters, because Zeke had just left it hanging open.

Casey knew he was making plenty of sounds, though: Zeke...please don't go...Zeke... and seeing as this was his second or fifth or tenth time at this, you'd think he'd have gotten better at it by now, but he was as pathetic as ever, indeed he couldn't be any more pathetic. He could just sit here and let Zeke walk out when he should be following him, trying to explain but the problem was the explanation wouldn't help, it would just guarantee that Zeke was more in a hurry to leave.

"You should stay."

Yves. Casey wanted to tell her that if she was going to try to intervene she should do it faster and better — oh, but she was talking to him, not Zeke which made no sense, he wasn't the one who was leaving — and he comprehended that he was up and moving, he seemed to be walking towards the door except at her words he actually stopped moving, fixing his eyes nevertheless on that portal that had just seen Zeke's back.

"What?" he said, frowning, trying to fathom how an innocent, open frame could be so horrific. It looked as it ever did, a normal door surrounded by a wall — walls, a room, and the room covered in all that nondescript-ness that he despised yet somehow had come to look to as a sign of security and that was just a lie, a fucking lie that trickedhimtrappedhim into thinking he could say the things he had said —

"Don't leave yet, Casey."

"Fuck," Casey said, to no real purpose, just to say something that meant something. "Fuck. Fuck." But it felt hollow, like he was lying, like he didn't really care that Zeke had left when he knew, he knew he did care except what if he didn't, what if he no longer had a single right feeling about anything.

While he pondered that, Yves had caught up with him. She attempted a reassuring touch. Casey endured it for a nanosecond, then staggered for that yawning hole in the wall.

She said, "Casey. Stop."

Somehow, she had the power to halt him. She was all he had left, maybe, and so he paused again. "Why?" he wondered aloud.

"I can't let you go like this." Now Yves had gotten between him and the door, obscuring his view through it. She was holding out a hand that was absolutely rock steady. "Please."

"I don't want to sit down!" he blurted, aware that he was making no sense. It seemed to suit the moment

"Then stand, but let's do it over by my desk."

"I don't want to."

"What do you want to do?"

"Find Zeke."

"And do what?"

"Make it right."

"And how would you do that?"

Give him anything everything, kneel at his feet and promise him never to disobey then lay down and spread himself wide open — or no, suck his cock first, that always worked. It had worked the first time they were together, after all, it should work now.

"Casey. Look at me please."

He forced himself to see her even while the muscles in his back and all up his legs twitched and his skin crawled, trying to propel him forward, after Zeke. She appeared as calm and unconcerned as ever, and he wanted to hit her for not grasping how fucking serious this was.

"How would you do that?" she asked again.

He whispered it: "You know."

"Do you really think that would work?"

No. No, it wouldn't work because he'd fucked up too badly. So maybe he just wanted a nice quiet hole to die in. He recalled reading somewhere that animals, when they were dying, liked to slink off to some dark, quiet place to get it done. No spectacle, and he liked that concept very much. He'd more than used up his quota of spectacle in his nineteen years. It would be nice to manage things without...without...oh, yeah, but everything has to be a drama, doesn't it...doesn't it, Casey? because that was what he said, he remembered everything Zeke said, he did. See, Zeke, he was trying, he was not freaking out, he was not zoning. He was dying stoically, like a man, see?

Yves was still standing between him and the door, and she asked again, "What are you going to do, Casey?"

"Do," he echoed.

"When you leave my office. What are you going to do?"

It occurred to him that he had a problem — something even worse than his problem a moment ago because it seemed that he'd already survived Zeke's leaving him, so many times now in fact that it would be foolish and hypocritical to stage a Dying-From-Love scenario now. On the other hand, he'd made it clear so many times over that he would die if he was ever left by Zeke, it was almost a matter of credibility at this point, and the practicalities of living, like getting moved and breathing, these were things he couldn't even begin to think about.

"Tonight?" he asked, stalling.

She nodded.

"Nothing."

"Good."

He gaped at her. He didn't think she had understood what he had meant by that word. "I mean nothing," he said, almost angrily.

"Oh." She cocked her head. "I see. Are you going to break your word to me, Casey?"

They stared at each other, and he passed quickly beyond any thought of protesting the unjustness of the question to a serious consideration of it. He thought about how it would be to go out as a known liar and a trouble-making slut, and how everyone would despise him for being so wretched and deplorable. He told his boyfriend he wanted to move out and when the boyfriend obliged, he killed himself. That would be the final headline for Casey Connor, and whatever he had hoped to accomplish in that final noble act of asking for separation would be quashed because Zeke would never forgive him. And Sasha would never forgive him, not to mention Stokes and Stan and the rest of the world. And his parents would never forgive him and either, and worst of all, Yves would dismiss him as unreliable and would never trust him again.

"No," he answered.

"I'm very glad to hear it. Will you be alone?"

Alonealonealone...the word ricocheted across his internal soundscape followed by the reiteration that he didn't have to enunciate because she already knew this about him: I don't want to be alone, he'd told her, he had made that declaration, that he wouldn't let it happen because hey, he did have a will, he could choose and he could choose not to be alone, he would do whatever it took and he would not, he wouldn't...but he would, he had no choice now if he ever wanted to be not alone again. He had no choice anymore...that was the problem with becoming self- sufficient and non-codependent and all that shit. It took away all his fucking choices. He'd had so many, before.

"Casey?"

"Huh?"

"Will you be alone tonight in your apartment?"

He mouthed what she wanted to hear: "My dad...he'll be there...and Sasha."

"That's very good."

"Zeke...he might show up..."

"What will happen when you see him?"

Casey shook his head. "I don't know."

"If you can talk — and I mean talk, not argue — it might help."

It was nearly laughable, but not really. Kidnapped, attacked, arrested and later abandoned, were quite enough for one day. "Dr. Yves," he rasped. "I can't do any more today. I can't."

Her face smoothed into an unfamiliar expression; he couldn't make much sense of it. "That's okay, Casey. Just try to get a good night's sleep and I'll see you tomorrow at ten after you've had a chance to rest and let things sink in. No road trips, okay?"

Let. Things. Sink. In. The syllables were strange, unreasonably portentous. He didn't want to let things sink in...he didn't want anything to sink. What kind of psychiatrist was she, using that word with him?

But finally, she seemed willing to let him walk out, to accompany him down the hall and to the front door with a hand on his arm. Bizarrely, the receptionist was still there from that time so long ago, just that afternoon when he and Zeke had come together. He heard Yves acknowledging the receptionist, forcing Casey to acknowledge her and her to acknowledge him as though interaction with one more stranger would somehow change the day, and then Yves was saying something about how she was going to phone home and let them know he was on his way, and there was some nonsense about was-it-okay, was-it-okay...something about was it okay.

"What?" he said.

"I said," she repeated patiently, "Do you mind if I let them know that you and Zeke had a disagreement?"

"A disagreement?" he gasped, truly on the brink of laughter. "Yeah, you can tell them. Tell them whatever, I don't care."

"Casey," she said, but left it at that.

He shrugged into his jacket. It seemed that he had never really taken off his boots so he didn't have to attend to that; he just got one arm into one sleeve while staring out the glass door, then another arm...it seemed he had finished both sleeves then and there was nothing to do but go out there now. There wasn't much to see but the cement stairs that would take him to the sidewalk, where it was dusk and no doubt chilly, and wet as usual.

"You'll be okay?" she asked.

She was trusting him because she had to, because he was expected to handle these things, to prove that he could handle them. Fuck but she was diabolical, forcing him to enter into that contract with her right when it would become so inconvenient. He nodded, still staring, as though what he saw through the frame was a puzzle with a piece missing — and to think that it was merely the world outside.

"Sasha and your father will be waiting for you to come home, I'm sure," Yves added.

Of course, she knew she had spoken the magic words: Sasha, father...home. She was good. He wanted to tell her that, but he imagined she knew it already.

"Good night, then. Casey?"

"Yeah," he muttered.

"I'm proud of you."

He darted a look at her, trying to make sense of that non sequitur. She gave him a quick smile before holding the door open for him. He sensed her eyes on his back all the way down the stairs. He turned quickly and started home just to get out of her sight.

If there were any aliens around this night, he was oblivious. He felt cool moisture on his face and that was about all he felt. He heard his footfalls without feeling them. Lights and objects, some of them probably human, spun past his eyes and he tried to image they were merely ghosts or at worst imaginary but he knew they weren't. He had never been more alive, in fact, and now he was going to be alone...but on the other hand, his dad would be happy. Finally he would no longer be pining and whining over his boyfriend, which of course, his father still hated. His father would much rather he was one of those non-practicing gays. And even Sasha would be happy because he wouldn't have to monitor them anymore, he could have an actual life.

Casey turned onto his own street with only scant memories of having walked there. His pace picked up a little. Yeah, he was going to be alone, but not yet. His father was up there now, and it was warm, and Sasha and probably Jerry and they would — well, not understand, but try their best. Trying was almost as good.

The steps were slippery again. He missed his footing and nearly massacred his knees on the metal; clinging to the handrail at the last second, he managed not to land too hard, probably just avoiding a full wipe-out that would have involved blood loss and embarrassment as everyone gathered around him to give him first aid. Hanging there, he began giggling at how funny this was, how funny if he had gotten through everything only to kill himself on the stairs.

Almost at once, the door above him opened. "Casey?" his father called.

Casey held his stomach and laughed harder.

"Casey...?" There was a wait before his father came out, clad in boots and coat, easing his way down the stairs. "What's going on?"

"Nothing...no-thing," Casey tittered.

"Why are you laughing?"

"I hurt my knee."

Just above him, his father was quiet, and then he was beside him with a hand on his arm. "Let me see."

Casey shook his head. "Nah...not that bad."

"Okay, then come inside."

"I'd like to," Casey answered. "But I can't move."

He decided to look and found his father worrying his bottom lip.

"If I move, something will happen," Casey explained.

Even he, lunatic that he was, knew that there could be nothing to say to that, and his father wisely didn't try. His father simply said, "It's time to go in."

It had the quality of truth. Casey allowed himself to be encouraged, all the way up and in. It was warmer inside, just like he had anticipated, and, as usual, it smelled like Sasha's cooking, which was good even though Casey could not call that the smell of home anymore. After all, he was moving out, and that would be fair to Sasha, really. Sasha could have his bed back.

"Yves called," his father was saying, a bit breathless.

"Oh."

His father began to unbutton his jacket for him, since he himself was falling down on the job. "She told me...."

She told him, she told him — what, which part? The one where Zeke was going to fuck him whether he wanted it or not and Casey knew that he would never say no and so he told Zeke he needed to move out like a stupid twit and Zeke did what Zeke couldhaveshouldhave done months ago, did Yves tell his father that? That part?

He was giggling again, it seemed.

"Casey," his father said only, obviously unhappy, tugging at Casey's sleeve.

"Did — did I tell you I drove on the ‘spressway — Dad — did I tell you that?"

"No, you didn't. Here..."

Casey shrugged so his dad could get his jacket off. His dad then dropped it on the floor and did something amazing. He put his arms around Casey and he didn't just pat his back like he always did when he hugged, no, he smoothed his hand up and down like Sasha would do, not as easily or as thoroughly but still...it was obviously his father's best attempt at being Sasha. "Stop that now," his father murmured.

It was supposed to be comfort, and so Casey stood rigid, trembling, forcing himself not to react as his father touched him, he chanted safesafesafe it's safe, safe, okay, thisismydad, this is okay, okayokayokay... and he chattered, "Wh- where's Sasha?"

"He was missing some ingredient so he and Jerry went out to get it. That was almost an hour ago, though..."

His father had no idea how much time Sasha could spend in a grocery store, not that Casey felt anywhere near adequate to explaining it right now. In fact, he didn't think he could explain much of anything, much better to just shut up — too late — and take things in. Around his father's arm, Casey's eye fell on the pot on the stove. There was a lid on it, and a tiny trickle of steam was escaping. He couldn't take his eyes off it. It was fascinating, somehow.

He jumped hard when their doorbell rang. In fact he made a little bit of a shrieking sound that was strangely embarrassing the moment afterward. It couldn't be Zeke, though, Zeke wouldn't ring. It couldn't, couldn't, couldn't be Zeke —

His father just him go and opened the door and there was Stokely, short of breath. "Hi!" she gasped. Her gaze immediately searched out Casey. "I saw you go running by and I tried to catch you but you didn't hear me, and I thought I'd have to wait until closing time but Tara said go and it's dead anyway — " She sucked a breath. "Case...are you okay?"

He stared.

"Um...Stan called me, he told me...he told me..." She flicked a look at Casey's father. "...you and Zeke..."

His father's eyes rounded. "What about them?"

"Stan?" Casey echoed, rather than acknowledge the question. He'd thought that Yves had explained it, but it seemed that she hadn't spared him that.

"Zeke called him."

"Called him?"

"To have a beer with him."

"Oh."

"What about you and Zeke?" pressed his father.

To Casey, he sounded a little bit like a man who thought he might have just won the lottery, but didn't want to believe too much just yet.

Stokely stepped forward and, like everyone else seemed to fucking want to all the fucking time, she touched him. "Case, I'm sorry — " He quivered a bit under her hand and she immediately dropped it. "Stan said you and Zeke...that you broke up. Is it true?"

His father had drawn a hard breath.

Casey turned his head away from both of them. "Seems like," he croaked. Over his shoulder, there was a gaping quiet.

Then: "I'll make you a cup of tea," Stokely offered.

"That sounds like a good idea," his father chimed in.

They wanted to help so much, Casey figured he had better let them. He nodded, still keeping his head turned away because he couldn't bear to know if their reactions were anything less than devastated on his behalf. "Please."

Stokely's response was nearly euphoric. "You sit down," she urged, heading to the kitchen. His father, peculiarly, went in there to help her, as though making tea were a truly onerous business. Casey sat at the kitchen table and, finally, watched them working, listened to them conferring over cups and tea bags and kettles... They were not gloating, they were working to make him feel better. It was kind of nice to have this empirical demonstration of how much they seemed to appreciate him, except it made him want to cry which wouldn't do at all when they were making such an investment in his comfort. He didn't think he had done anything near as much for Stokely when she and Stan had broken up and she had showed up at their door looking for comfort and company. In fact, he was pretty sure he had sat around like a slug, feeling sorry for himself. Kind of like he was doing right now. The least he could do was try to make some conversation.

"I pumped gas today," he said.

Stokely came out from the kitchen with his cup of tea, setting it down in front of him. "Oh...really?"

"Never done it before."

"That's cool, Case."

"It made me feel good," he said in a rush, pleading with her to get it because he didn't have it in him to go into detail and he was afraid that he was beginning to sniffle. He swiped at his nose, just in case.

"I know what you mean," she said softly, watching him with an intense expression of sympathy. "You aren't sure if you're doing it right and you think everyone is watching you."

"Yeah," he said, surprised. He smiled, and she smiled, and he took a sip of the tea, which was nothing more esoteric than chamomile. "Thanks."

"No problem, Case."

With the cup halfway between his mouth and the table, he heard Sasha's voice outside the apartment, raised in a laugh, and he felt it like a jolt. Hot liquid splashed over his hand; he gritted his teeth and set down the cup as Sasha and Jerry came in from outside. A tendril of cool air brushed Casey's arm, and he shivered. He decided to fix his eyes on the table, that it was the only safe place.

"That was a helluva long time for a loaf of bread," Casey's dad commented, his tone just a little too dire. It stopped the laughter in its tracks. There was a quiet, and then an audible sigh from Jerry.

"Oh, crap," Sasha commented. He closed his eyes, opened them a moment later. "What?"

No one answered him. In due course, Casey felt Sasha's presence near his elbow but he didn't dare look. If he did, he would break apart instantly and for some reason to do that now in front of all of them was the most mortifying, horrifying spectacle he'd ever contemplated, even coming from him. He would never survive it and then if he did happen to still be breathing at the end of it, the memory of it would make him shrivel within for the rest of his life, and the worst thing was, he couldn't so much as open his mouth to explain that.

"Casey?"

He shook his head.

"What's the matter? Tell me, kitten"

Casey tapped his fingers on the table and rocked in place. His throat was burning with pain and why the fuck wasn't Sasha reading his mind like he usually did, what the fuck was the matter with him, didn't he see that Casey was about to burst out wailing in front of his female friend who had seen him break down ten too many times already, his father who hated scenes and had to leave to go back home in another day or so, and Jerry, Jerry who already thought he was a whinging leech, sucking the life out of his boyfriend? In another nanosecond he was going to bolt to the bathroom, a slightly lesser failure on his part but still a disaster.

"Hey, you know...?" Stokely commented suddenly. "I think I'll go back downstairs now...it's kind of cluttered in here." Deliberately she cleared her throat, and Casey had never loved or appreciated her as much as he did then.

"Oh," said Jerry. "Right, um...Frank, didn't you get some stain for that part of the doorframe?"

"Yeah," Casey's father said, while Casey tried not to actively clutch the end of the table.

"Well, why don't we go work on it a bit?"

"Now? It's seven o'clock, and there's always — "

It seemed like someone might have pinched Casey's father just then, but Casey wasn't going to wait for his father to clue in; he left his cup of tea behind, fleeing into the living room where he curled himself into Sasha's chair, into the smallest corner of it, and blanked out as much of this as he could. He may or may not have been successful at zoning, he didn't know. All he knew was one moment he was desperately willing himself to disappear and then next Sasha was crouched down near him, gently offering the contact of his hand with Casey's arm. It was a neutral touch, neither scary nor soothing.

"Okay," he said. "They'll do their darndest not to hear anything."

Casey made himself look at his friend; he made himself talk. He said what came out of his mouth and that was the whispered, "Sasha...'m sorry."

Sasha didn't react visibly. "Sorry for what."

"I know you wanted everything to be okay now but I didn't know what else to do."

"Meaning what, Casey?"

He didn't sound angry, or upset, just patient. Just like Sasha.

Casey gulped it out: "Toldhimgottamove."

Sasha blinked. "Huh?"

"Told Zeke..." His breath hitched. "Moving out."

"What? Moving out...who?"

"Me," Casey said, on a sob. "I'm..uh...moving...out..."

"Out where?" Sasha wondered, then answered himself. "You mean out of this apartment?" There was a pause. "Why ever would you do that?"

"Are you mad?"

"Never mind that. Why do you want to move out?"

In some miraculous way, Sasha was helping Casey get the incipient madness under control. He didn't know why but he could almost speak in sentences, and starting out, he listened to himself, marvelling that he sounded so very contained all of a sudden. "I realized...Zeke and me, we've gotta be apart for a while. I don't want it to be any more mixed up."

"Is that why you had to see Yves?"

"Yes, and I — told Zeke. I told him." He laughed to himself. "It's funny, all of a sudden I don't feel anything. Nothing. Nothing at all — " He hiccoughed the laughs, wondering the strange honks being emitted by his throat.

Sasha suddenly seized him by the upper arms; Casey shrugged a bit more violently than he intended to. "No..."

"Oh," Sasha said, removing his hands.

At his tone, Casey met his eyes, and saw sadness there. "I don't want that — no touching now," Casey explained, trying to be straightforward about it.

"Okay."

"Sorry."

"No, no..." Sasha shook his head. "Casey."

"You can have Jerry over now."

Sasha's eyes grew huge. "What the fuck...? I don't care about that."

"Jerry does."

"Jerry cares about you — oh, god, please tell me you're not moving out because of that."

"No," Casey said. God, fuck, a moment ago he had been ready to panic and now he was almost dead inside, and it was so still and easy, but of course it couldn't last. "Not..." just "...that. I was afraid I would lose Zeke from being so crazy that I fuck him up more all the time, so I said I needed to move out. And than he got mad and he said it was over. And it makes sense, you know? I mean, who says you meet the guy you're always going to be with at nineteen? It's not very realistic. Stokely and Stan didn't — oh, Stokely says he and Stan are out having a beer. He must have told Stan it was over, because Stan called Stokely and told her...so she and Stan know it's over, and now you know. Maybe you could tell my dad for me."

He astonished himself. He was dry-voiced, dry-eyed.

"You know?" he added. "I think I want to go in my room...I mean your room, of course. I think I want to write a bit in my journal, maybe...maybe have a nap."

Sasha was staring at him. He almost wanted to chuckle, because Sasha looked more shocked than Casey had ever seen him. He was so white, his eyebrows looked like they'd been painted on. His mouth was a funny shape.

"Can I go have a nap?" Casey repeated.

"Why don't you just..." Sasha whispered. "Oh, kitten, I mean...shit. I don't know what to say."

"I know it's supper and I should eat, and it's kind of late for a nap and early for bed but I'm really tired. Okay?"

Not waiting for an answer, Casey started to stand, forcing Sasha to move quickly to get out of the way. Casey had to hunch slightly to avoid touching him.

He walked to the bedroom, very impressed with how mature he was being. He discovered his father and Jerry lingering in the hallway, standing near the bathroom door looking awkward and stupid, and he grinned at them before he made a left turn into Sasha's room. He laid himself on Sasha's bed and closed his eyes —

— and an instant later he jolted awake, not quite sure and not quite remembering what he had heard but knowing all the same that Zeke is here....Zeke is here... It was like he'd slept for a second or a century, he didn't know the time and the blood foamed into his head as he leaped up and off the bed, knocking his elbows and already-bruised knees against the walls but none of it deterred him. He had to get to Zeke.

But Sasha was there in the hallway, right in his path. "Casey — "

He ignored him, knowing that in this matter Sasha was not his ally and needing to be with Zeke as soon and as perfectly as possible, it was all he knew, the entire pulse of every fucking nerve-ending but he still had those fucking short legs that despite his best efforts had gotten him moving not quite fast enough and Sasha was now holding onto him, holding him back. Keeping him from Zeke while there was conversation going on around him, meaningless stuff, his father trying to be the elder of the group and then Zeke being Zeke.

"Don't — fucking — reason with me!" Casey heard. He struggled to get free of Sasha, who was holding him so hard that it hurt. Then it was, "Casey...want to talk to you," and Casey tried to get out a reply. All he managed was a grunt.

"Let me go — " he hissed, absolutely failing to be convincing however. Tears of desperation were rising, disbelief and grief that no one understood or would even listen.

"Zeke," Jerry was saying. "Listen, pal — "

"I'm not your pal and I want to talk to him."

"That ain't gonna happen."

"Why don't you just take a flying fuck!"

"Zeke, go find a place to sleep it off."

"Ask him what he wants!"

So now Jerry was half-wrestling and half-coaxing Zeke out the door, and in another second it would too late, but Casey couldn't move. He was forbidden to move.

"Casey? Casey, listen, it's not over, do you hear? I don't want it to be, I just want you to stay here — you're not leaving, I won't let you!"

Then Casey couldn't see Zeke. He heard himself moan, or whine maybe. His voice was rather useless.

"I won't let you!" Zeke's voice insisted. "Casey — you — get out of my way!"

This time, there was a slam.

Sasha's arms were an enclosure that Casey couldn't get free from. "Trust me, kitten, please."

"Let go!"

Far too late, Sasha released him, opening a space between them but still between Casey and the door. "You're not going to do something foolish like run out after him."

"Over my dead body," added Casey's father. He was, Casey realized, just inches away. Casey knew he would never make it to that door, let alone through it.

"But it's cold out — it's not fair, Sasha. This is where he lives."

"Not when he's the way he is, Casey."

"But..." Casey began. He had an image of Zeke outside with icy rain pouring on him, while Casey and his allies were cozy and warm inside. "It's cold."

"Jerry is with him, Jerry will take him somewhere..."

"S-Stokely's?"

"Yeah, that's a good idea. Maybe you should just go to bed now, kitten."

"No."

"You're exhausted. You slept right through dinner."

"But — "

He couldn't say, Zeke is going to be back. Zeke is going to come back and I have to be ready, or he'll call, he doesn't give up easy like that. Not nearly.

"Sasha's right," his father said.

"Don't you say that!" Casey yelled. He saw them trading looks of conspiracy and he added, "You have no right to keep us apart."

"Casey..." Sasha said, obviously out of arguments.

The phone rang. Casey made a break for it and his father grabbed him around the middle. Fury and panic erupted and Casey shouted, "Let me — !" The arms about him loosened but did not obey altogether; in the meantime, Sasha had found the phone and answered it himself.

"Hello...no, I will not let you talk to him...just find someplace to sleep it off, darling...yes, I know...I know."

There was a long pause. Casey could hear Zeke's voice raised in the background, ranting in best Zeke style, full of multi-syllabic insults.

"Please, Zeke," Sasha said then. "Just let us all off the hook for tonight. We'll pick up the fighting bright and early tomorrow, I promise. I just need to catch a few winks and you need to process about fifty beers."

The tirade continued.

Sasha spoke right over him. "Zeke, sweetheart...I hope you'll remember this tomorrow. I love you and it kills me seeing you like this...no, I do. You have to believe me. Now you go find someplace to shack up and come back early tomorrow. I'll make whatever you want for breakfast...steak? A whole cow if you want...okay. Night, baby." With Zeke still raving in the background, Sasha hung up.

Casey waited to be released, and when it didn't happen he flinched his way out of his father's hold. The air seemed to have thickened, making it a challenge to find his way to a chair. Both Sasha and his father watched him; he could feel their eyes, waiting for him to freak. They were poised with their comfort, ready to deploy it at a moment's notice..

"I did this to him," he tried.

Immediately, Sasha pounced. "You did not, kitten. Zeke has — "

"Don't do that."

"What?"

"Don't…make it all his fault."

Sasha was quiet. He moved closer and squeezed Casey's hand where it lay on top of the table. He said, "It's never just one person's fault."

"No, it's not," Casey agreed.

"Except when it is."

"Oh." I should be more upset than this, he thought. He was in shock, yes. That had to be it, why he didn't feel anything even though Zeke had just been forced from his own home, drunk and raving and out of control. "He said it wasn't over," Casey muttered.

"That's true," Sasha agreed.

"But in Yves' office, he said..."

"I wouldn't try to analyze it too much, kitten."

"You remember when Roy called?"

"What?"

"To tell me it was over?"

"Oh...yes, of course."

"Did my face look the same as it does now?"

A pause, then: "I don't know, kitten."

"I felt stupid...I still feel stupid. Like…if I had just said the right thing it would…it would be different." Casey chewed on a finger and eyed the other two men, verifying that they weren't attempting an approach right now. "I want Zeke to be okay."

"He will be. You did the right thing, Casey, only I…"

"You what?"

"I don't want you to leave here," Sasha announced.

"I know...and I don't want to...I want to stay here and go to school. I don't want…" His voice caught. He put his head down on his knees. "Oh, god."

"What?" Sasha sounded mildly alarmed. "What is it?"

"Oh, fuck."

"Casey, for god's sake, what?"

"I don't want to be with Zeke. I just…I thought I did, but I don't…I don't want to be with anyone." He jerked his head up, noticed that he was hyperventilating. "I don't want to be with anyone, Sasha."

"There's nothing wrong with that, Casey."

"Nothing wrong with that," Casey's father echoed.

"But there is because... I don't know how to do it, if Zeke….I mean, I'll die without him but I — don't — know — I — "

Sasha took a step forward, confidently putting a hand on Casey's shoulder. "Maybe a Xanax would be a good idea."

Casey shook his head.

"Sure it would."

"G-gone," Casey gulped.

"Gone? When did this happen?"

"I flushed them," his father said.

Sasha huffed and said, "I wish someone had mentioned this before so I could call Dr. Chakri and — okay, never mind. Try to breathe, kitten. If we need to we can try the paper bag trick."

"Can't breathe."

"Yes, you can."

"No." Casey grabbed at Sasha, who seemed to be trying to leave him too. "No."

"It's okay…here, talk to your dad for a second, kitten." Sasha directed Casey's flailing hand to his father. "Frank, just — "

"What do I do?"

"Talk to him, try to be calm. It's fine, it will pass. Talk to your dad, kitten. I'll be right back."

"Fuck you!" Casey declared, not sure what it had to do with anything, except that there was a terrible rage in him — that black, balled-up thing, that had to be rage.

"Love you too, kitten. Hang in there."

Somebody's arm was trying to crush him. "Don't!" he cried. "Can't breathe!"

"Sorry."

Casey shot up and started to pace because it felt better to walk for some reason, if he was walking his neurons must be firing, his heart must be beating so he couldn't be dying…or he could but he wasn't dead yet. Stay on his feet and stay alive…stay on his feet and stay alive. For some reason he suddenly had the idea that if he was screaming he couldn't be dying, it took oxygen to scream for one thing, so he was pacing and screaming and it felt good to scream so he just kept doing it, and pacing. Pacing and screaming.

"Oh, god, Casey," he heard his father cry. "Stop it. Stop it!"

But he was drowning it out, not wanting to hear it, screaming still, no words just sound. It felt like he was using parts of his body that hadn't been used in years, maybe his entire life. He only heard himself, nothing else, just him, just him until he realized he was too sore and tired and tired of himself to keep on going so then he was just standing there.

Breathing.

His father and Sasha were each several feet away, staring at him, grey- faced. Sasha was holding a washcloth in his hand, and he looked a bit silly.

"I…" Sasha mumbled. "What...?"

"Casey," his father whispered.

He was utterly exhausted. He started to kneel slowly, the idea being to lower himself gradually to the floor but his knees buckled. He landed with a wince, remembering all too keenly the incident earlier on the stairs, and just sat there panting slightly.

"Can I touch you now?" Sasha asked quietly.

Casey nodded. He would, after all, need some help to get up. "I'm sorry," Casey said as Sasha gently gripped his arm. "Did I break anything?"

"Just our eardrums. What do you want to do now?"

"Sleep…please."

"You got it." Sasha almost had to drag him up, his limbs were so atrophied. It was all he could do to take a step.

"So tired…"

"I'm not surprised."

"Dad — " Casey blurted.

"Yeah, Case."

"You okay?"

"Um…well, sort of, I…I guess."

Sasha drew him along, out of the dining area, down the hall. "I think I need to get to bed, too." He laughed briefly and started down the hall as though his back were hurting him, moving far too stiffly and slowly. Stopping unexpectedly, he asked, "You are crashing with me, right, kitten?"

Casey knew a command when he heard one, not that he needed to hear it. He was more than ready to lay down with Sasha and sleep for a year, but... "What about Jerry?" he asked.

"He's going home tonight...after he drops Zeke off."

"Where...?"

"At Stokely's."

"He's not going to be going anywhere tomorrow morning," Casey's father predicted.

"Maybe not, but we'll deal with it tomorrow..."

Suddenly, the very last thing possible happened — Sasha's voice broke. Casey looked at him in horror, saw him struggling to contain some emotion, his friend Sasha who was always emotional but somehow never out of control, his friend Sasha was falling apart and Casey had done this too. He opened his mouth to plead forgiveness.

But then Sasha tossed his hair and cleared his throat. He sighed, "After all, tomorrow is another day."

It had an ominous ring to it, to Casey's mind, yet he had nothing left with which to confront it. He took another step toward the bedroom, speaking over his shoulder. "Going to sleep now, Dad, okay?"

"Maybe...you should eat something before you go to sleep."

"I'm not hungry."

His father just nodded. "Okay. I'm going to hit the hay soon myself." He clapped a hand down on Casey's shoulder, briefly, then turned back towards the living room, in complete disregard of the fact that there was one entirely empty bed in the house.

As he was directed, Casey went in Sasha's room and sat on the bed while Sasha diverged in the direction of the bathroom to do Sasha-related things and Casey found that he didn't mind waiting. He knew Sasha would probably have a few words to say to him. About how he had wrecked everything, ruined everyone's lives and driven the most poised person he knew to despair and — and offer to cook foods that he hated, that was the worst yet. He was an endless burden, he was —

— he was looking up, staring into Sasha's eyes, and astoundingly, Sasha was smiling. Casey kept looking because he figured he had to be misinterpreting what he was seeing, and he almost bolted when Sasha's hands came at him. They clasped his cheeks, gently cupping his head while his tall friend bent at the waist and kissed him on the forehead. His lips were dry and soft against Casey's skin.

"You really are my hero," he said.

Casey tried to remain absolutely immobile, out of a suspicion that this was actually a nightmare and someone was going to run him into a flagpole at any moment. Sasha released him and sat down beside him, hugging him close without really waiting for any sign that it was okay, and Casey didn't mind at all.

"Hmm," Sasha sighed, resting his face against the crown of Casey's head.

"Sasha... Are you okay?"

Sasha moved his head. "What's that, kitten?"

"I, um...I wondered...are you okay?"

"Well, sure. Of course I was a bit distressed by Zeke busting in like that..." Sasha trailed off, and shedding his expression of composure, he admitted, "Yeah, I got kind of overwhelmed there for a second, what with everything that's happened today, but I'm really all right. The romantic part of me is sad, but mostly I'm impressed and relieved and happy. Really, Casey. I don't want you laying there listing your faults because it's just not true."

"Really?" Casey whispered.

"Really." Even in the dark Sasha's smile was brilliant. "I really believe that things are looking up."

"Do you think...do you think Zeke meant what he said?"

"Which part?"

"About...not wanting it to be over?"

"I know he doesn't want to lose you, kitten." Sasha paused, heaved a breath of pure emotion. "I know I don't want to lose you."

It was cowardly, but Casey closed his eyes and pretended he hadn't heard the last. "I'm so tired, Sasha."

"Yeah...me too." Sashed flopped on his back and sighed. "It's been an unbelievable day." He chuckled, briefly. "Unbelievable week."

Casey obligingly closed his eyes but there were voices waiting in the dark, Thomas and Officer Williams and Yves and Zeke, and Sasha's trying to rise above them all with you're my hero, which made Casey smile and it was like a switch got flipped, silencing all the rest of them, at least long enough for him to lose consciousness.

He slept hard at first, waking halfway through the night, never able to get back to sleep, so he laid there until it was at last daylight and his eyes were aching in their sockets. The digital clock calculated time silently, measuring his existence second by second. His fingers itched to write, but he feared disturbing Sasha so he waited until his tall friend finally rolled from the bed with a groan.

"Uh...gotta make the donuts," Sasha muttered.

"Huh?"

"You're too young," Sasha sighed. "God, I'm tired. Didn't get much sleep."

Casey heard a scratching on skin and figured he'd better not look. He rolled onto his side. His journal that was calling to him from the floor beside the bed.

"Seems like you were doing some tossing and turning too," Sasha added. When Casey didn't have an answer, there was another sigh, and the sound of his friend ambling from the room.

Casey immediately got out his journal. For long moments he lay on his stomach, holding his pen and waiting for the jumble to sort itself out. He wondered if the phone might not ring at any second, and his heart started to race. He quickly set his hand to the page.

Zeke got so wasted last night that Sasha wouldn't let him in the house. It doesn't feel fair. It can't be, and he wanted to tell me that it wasn't over, I remember, he said that. Maybe it wasn't just booze, maybe he meant it. Maybe if he said it to me today I could take back what I said too and it would all be okay again.

But look at what I did to him.

The next bit of words seemed to be blocked, and rather than try to write them down, Casey compressed them into a black blob on the page. Somewhat relieved by the sight of the ink soaking through the paper, he continued.

This has to be the one thing I can do for him. I'm so fucking weak! And not only because of that, because I know I don't really want him, I just want to use him because I'm afraid to be alone.

I need to do this for him. I'm so glad Sasha didn't let me talk to him last night, I totally would have caved. I still might. All I want is to be brave, just for once, but I'm not like that. I'm such a

He stopped. He stared blankly at the incomplete, empty space, at that word he wasn't supposed to write, that he hadn't written and didn't need to.

Well, it was time for a shower. He hurried, hating his own obviousness, his boringness on top of everything else he was or wasn't. Poor Yves, she was never going to get him sorted out, he thought, stripping and edging under the spray, turning the cold down to the point that the water was nearly scalding, and just standing there. The heat was so fucking good.

A violent shiver was driven out of him, and then another. He picked up the soap, and suddenly flashed back on one of those times in the shower, with Zeke, Zeke with hands on his hips, holding him, forcing his way into him, sometimes with a hand on his neck but still letting him fall when he fell...and that had hurt. Not just a little sore, it had really, really hurt, a lot like the last time they had sex, a lot like when he woke up that morning and it was like he had been ripped apart...

He found himself standing there, motionless in the tub and lightheaded from the heat.

"Fuck," he whispered, washing himself quickly and shutting off the water. It couldn't have been that long that he had been zoned, or someone would have gotten worried and intervened. Still...this wasn't supposed to happen anymore even if it didn't seem to hurt anyone...apart from his regular habit of hogging all the hot water.

A failure still, he got dry and dressed. He heard the doorbell and nearly panicked, but of course it was just Jerry. Zeke wouldn't ring to be let into his own apartment — but when the phone rang just minutes later, Casey skidded down the hallway, knowing that he would be way too late all the same.

Of course, Sasha had already answered. "Yes...hi, Stokely. Un-huh...oh, poor baby..."

Now Casey was standing directly in front of Sasha, who was doing something at the kitchen counter with strawberries and blueberries; glancing at the new arrival, Sasha put down the knife he had been holding and continued to converse.

"Oh. We were hoping to see him this morning but I guess..."

Casey felt certain that he was about to do something very rude and typically crazy, such as grab for the phone, try to snatch it from Sasha's grasp, but reading him easily, Sasha put out a hand and firmly gripped his shoulder, keeping him at bay, all the while wearing a perfectly nonchalant expression.

"All right...well, have him call as soon as he feels better. Thanks, Stokely."

Sasha listened to something that Stokely said, nodded as though she could actually see it.

"What is it?" Casey begged. "What's wrong, is he okay, I need to talk to him — "

And then he did grab for the phone, seeing Sasha thumb the button that disconnected him from Zeke.

"Why did you do that?" he demanded, his voice shrill. "You have no right — "

"Casey," Sasha said, and the tone immediately settled a silence upon him.

Casey tried to be still, and to breathe, in that order.

"Zeke has a hangover, not that it's a surprise. He's in bed and he's not going anywhere today."

Casey put a hand over his mouth, containing himself until the tide had subsided and he could speak normally. "Oh." He imagined they could all, in another second, get a pretty fucking good view of him going to pieces. "I think I need a shower."

"You just had one, kitten."

"So," he muttered.

Sasha appealed openly but silently to Jerry, who had been on-hand the entire time.

"No time," put in Casey's father suddenly, his voice booming from behind. "You have an appointment."

Casey didn't see the clock but he knew his father was right, and he was far from dreading that appointment, come to think of it.

"Hey," Jerry said, his tone insanely bright. "After your appointment...how about I take us all out for brunch? I'm in the mood to celebrate."

"Cel - celebrate?" Casey echoed.

"Sasha and I have a whole two weeks off, you know."

"Why?"

"The restaurant closed. It's like our holiday, once New Year's past..." Jerry smiled. "So what do you say?"

"S-say?"

"To brunch," Jerry reiterated, with no hint of impatience.

"I have to go see Yves."

"Yes, I know...but after that...?"

"Oh...kay." Recalling that his father was somewhere in his vicinity, Casey turned a half circle, searching. "Dad?"

"Sounds good to me," his father said, and just like Jerry, sounded far too cheerful about a mere meal.

Knees trembling, Casey found a chair and sat. So this was to be his life. Full of male company but devoid of Zeke.

"Kitten? "

"I'm going in a few minutes."

"I know...just let me wash my hands."

"I can go to Yves by myself."

"Huh? No way."

"Sasha." Casey remembered to look up, to meet Sasha's eyes. "You can trust me."

"And after?"

"You can meet me outside the building...or I'll meet you at the diner or wherever we're going."

Sasha seemed to consider it. His eyes seemed to flicker in Jerry's direction once or twice as he did, but then he said, "No. I'm sorry, kitten. I believe you but you'll just have to humor me. Yesterday is too close. I'll go with you and wait in the reception area."

Casey groused, "You can't do that every day."

"No, I can't. But today I need to. Just tolerate me, all right?"

Casey did his best to quash a plethora of reactions, many of them immature and unjust. "Okay," he managed. He even managed to sound like he wasn't suffocating. Anticipating and foreclosing on Sasha, he made certain not to stomp to the front hall, to collect his jacket and put on his sneakers like someone who was almost twenty. "I'll be outside," he said mildly, daring Sasha to challenge it.

Sasha didn't react, that he saw.

The damp, mid-morning air was like a revelation of freedom; it had never smelled or tasted so good. The air felt so good, so clean and uncomplicated, except perhaps by the chemicals that he didn't see or smell that polluted him, but why dwell on that? Breathing it in, Casey stood at the bottom of the stairs eyeing the passers by on the sidewalk. They didn't inspire him with confidence in his safety, but that would be asking far too much. At least they didn't look unduly threatening.

You have nothing to fear from us,

A passing male, a large, rather stocky fellow, caught Casey's eye and smiled. Just a tiny smile in passing, a recognition of another human being. In fact, a lot of them seemed to be smiling when they saw him. We know who you are, they claimed. You are ours but we won't hurt you.

"No," he muttered. "Not yours."

Footsteps clattered behind him. "What?" Sasha said.

Casey didn't turn; he just stood and breathed. There were aliens everywhere, of course, but somehow it was okay, probably because Zeke had left him and there was nothing left to fear. Nothing really mattered all that much.

"What is it, kitten?"

"Sasha," Casey said, glancing sideways as Sasha came up alongside him. "You know what?"

"What?"

"I'm actually glad to be outside."

Sasha smiled. "I'm glad you're glad."

Ten minutes into their walk, Sasha spoke up.

"Casey."

"Yeah."

"Zeke said something last night..."

Zeke had said a lot of things. "Yeah."

"Like... he doesn't want it to be over."

"I heard."

"Well, I just wasn't sure... What are you going to tell him if he says that tomorrow?"

"I don't want it to be over, Sasha. I just can't be with him right now is all."

In profile, Sasha held his breath before asking, "May I ask why?" Casey gave him a long sideways look and he added, "I believe you're right, I just want to hear your reasons."

"Because...I don't want it to be over."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"I'm a mess, and I'm making him a mess. If I ever want to have him back, it has to be over for now."

Sasha was silent for a bit. Step. Squish. Slide. Step. "How can you be trying to get the phone from me one second and then half an hour later say things like that?"

"I don't know." Casey dodged a puddle. "I don't know...it's when he's around, I just...lose it. I'd do anything he wanted." He stopped walking. "I'd do anything."

Sasha gently urged him forward with a hand on his shoulder. "I'll keep getting between you then."

Casey nodded.

"Now you see why you should stay with me, kitten?"

Withholding his real response, Casey answered, "It's not like I want to move out."

"Then don't! I'm sure Zeke will understand."

"I can't ask him, I can't, I've been rotten enough — "

"Well, then." Sasha steered Casey right when he would have continued on straight. "Maybe someone will have a few words with him."

"Sasha, no — "

"Shush, kitten. Just let me try to fix this."

You're always trying to fix everything and I wish you'd stop, Casey didn't say. He beat a path through some slush and didn't say another word until he got all the way to the building, where fortunately he barely had to wait before he was shown into Yves' office. He did not collapse into his usual crouch, but went to stand at the window, staring out. Like it wasn't enough that Sasha pestered him into eating and sleeping and revealing things —

"Well, Casey...how are things since yesterday?"

"I wish I would disappear."

"How so?"

"Wish I could disappear like I'd never existed, then I'd never've been such a nuisance and ruined everyone's lives."

"Tell me how you've ruined everyone's lives."

He turned from the window, trying not to look as though she were an idiot because it was so very, very obvious. "Okay. I didn't ruin their lives but they'd all have been better off."

"There's this kind of famous movie — "

"It's a Wonderful Life, yeah, I know it but that movie's really just all about making George Bailey feel okay with being trapped."

"Is it?"

"Yeah, it's dressed up as this holiday movie but the point of all the spiritual crap is to make us believe that sacrifice is good."

"Okay, maybe I picked the wrong example. I thought everyone liked that movie."

"Oh, I love it." Casey rubbed his eyes. "Sorry. You were going to make a point about how everything would have been different and worse if I hadn't been born."

"Well, for one thing, I might be a part of the Borg hive by now."

He gaped. She was a grandmother, wearing pink polyester today, and then she went and said stuff like that?

"Yes, Casey, I'm familiar with the concept of the Borg," Yves said, sounding amused. "But you see my point?"

"Someone else would have gotten the job done if I hadn't."

"Are you sure?"

"What," Casey argued, "So they picked the one town in all the world with the one person who could defeat them?"

And at the same moment, in his head there was a whisper: Or maybe they just picked her successor Probably best that he didn't share that one with her, especially since he wasn't entirely sure why he was thinking it. He only knew that at some point — and he didn't know if it was weeks, months or even years ago — he'd gotten this idea that maybe he'd been more to Mary Beth than just her murderer. Not that he could have said why it was important to him. He just knew that it was, and while he'd shared it with Thomas yesterday, he doubted that any of the sane people in his life should hear about it. Only Thomas.

"Why not?" Yves had replied to him. "Anyway, it doesn't matter how it happened, the fact is that you did an amazing thing. You saved a lot of people...including Zeke."

He realized that he was crying — again. "I wasn't going to do this," he said angrily.

She didn't comment.

He lamented, "I didn't save Zeke, I fucked him over and he's — he's so hungover today he can't even — can't even — get out of bed — "

"Casey, why don't you sit down?"

He accepted the invitation, and the box of Kleenex which Yves handed to him without expression.

"Now," she said. "Did you force Zeke to drink the alcohol?"

"No, but — "

"Did you force him to like you and spend time with you?"

"Kind of — no, I mean — no — "

"Did you force him to move to Seattle with you?"

"I guess not."

"What do you say we let him be responsible for his own life...and his own hangover?"

"But..." Casey blew his noise and crumpled the tissue in his hand. "I made him miserable, and I'm still doing it."

"It sounds like you're still resolved to move out, then."

Casey abused his tissue some more. "I'm not resolved. I'd — Sasha is trying to convince me to stay — he wants Zeke to move out — and I'd give him anything — "

"You mean Zeke?"

"Yeah."

"So if he busted through the door right now and said, ‘it's not over, Casey...'"

"He already tried that last night."

"What happened?"

"I was ready to give in — they kept us apart."

"Who?"

"Sasha, Jerry...my dad."

"Are you relieved they did that...or would you rather they hadn't?"

The tissue was nearly shredded now.

"Relieved, I guess," Casey replied. "I don't know."

"Casey, what do you think is the best course of action right now?"

"Zeke and I...need to be apart for a while but I...I'm afraid, I can't say no to him and what if once we're apart I don't...I don't really want to be with him...anymore..."

He fell silent, astonished by what had fallen from his own lips.

"Say that again, Casey."

"I don't think I can."

"Sure you can."

"What if..." he whispered, and sniffed. He tried to use the tissue one last time and gave up. "What if I find out that I really don't want to be with him at all... "

"Do you think...maybe that's what you're really afraid of? That you just want to be Casey, on your own, without Zeke or anyone else?"

He stared at his hands.

"Casey?"

He put the wad of tissue on the table in front of him.

"Casey."

"Yes," he whispered.

"And...?"

"I can't stay with Zeke and fuck him up anymore. I can't use him like I've been."

"Do you think you can explain that to him?"

"I...fuck..."

"Go on."

"I can't tell him that."

"Don't you think you owe it to him?"

"Doesn't matter... I can't."

"Well...how about we try and create a strategy to help you with that. We could come up with something and write it down. You keep it with you, read it aloud to him if you have to."

"I don't...really want to."

"Why not?"

"It feels silly."

"Believe it or not, this is how we progress, Casey, by doing these silly exercises."

He held out with silence as long as he could, until he had to admit that she was still waiting for his answer. "Okay," he said, at last.

"So, Zeke is standing in front of you and you feel completely free to say whatever you need to him. What would you say?"

"I wouldn't. I would choke."

"You don't have anxiety in this scenario, Casey. Your head is completely clear and you can say just what you want to tell him."

"What I think I need to say?"

"Exactly."

"Um...okay..."

She waited, wearing a patient expression.

"I...I would tell him...I'm doing this for him..."

"Yes?"

"See, this is the part where he interrupts me with something like ‘fucking bullshit, Casey.'"

Yves smiled faintly as she replied, "But he's not saying that. He's just listening."

"Oh." Casey licked his lips. "I say...I know this situation isn't fair, but that's why we have to...not live together." His hands had formed themselves into fists, and he had to resist the desire to use them on himself. "That doesn't make any sense! I'm trying to tell him that I owe it to him to move out."

"Why do you owe it to him?"

"Because he's given me so much, he's taken care of me and if he's miserable it's because of me. I've worn him down, and so he's the one who helped me get to this point, he helped me know...like I can't stand to be touched right now, I don't want to be in a relationship at all, and that's why it's not fair...but if we stay together, it will only get worse, and I don't want it to get worse. I want Zeke to be happy, and...and...I don't know if I...I mean, I want to be able to know that what I think I feel is really what I feel, and that I'm...shit, I mean...he deserves that. So I have to do this, even if he hates me for it. And it's for me, too, because I..." He looked up at Yves, nodding slowly, reluctantly and painfully as he whispered, "I need to — to not b-be with him — for a while."

Yves considered him for what felt like a long moment before replying. "That's pretty good," she said only.

"It is?"

"Of course. It's honest."

"It feels..." Scary, like he was saying things that couldn't possibly be the truth, like they were just noises that came out and couldn't ever be taken back. "... like a big mess."

"Well, feelings don't generally come out in the form of Shakespearean soliloquies. The important thing is that you try to express them, and you can't assume that Zeke is going to hear all this and just say, ‘all right, Casey, I see now. I'm hurt but I understand.' The problem with asserting yourself is that there's no guarantee that the other person will respond just the way you want. In Zeke's case..."

Casey barked a laugh, the only response he had at the moment. "Perfect."

"I'm sorry, Casey."

"It's okay. It's not your fault."

"Now do you want to try to write down what you just said?"

"And do what with it?"

"When you see Zeke and your anxiety perhaps takes over, you read it aloud to him if you have to."

Casey didn't quite manage to keep back a scowl, and Yves chuckled.

"I can see what your opinion is of that, and maybe it feels artificial, but it's a way of ensuring that Zeke hears what you really feel, expressed in a way that's not confrontational. I'm sure you know that when two people start arguing, they get pushed into corners and — "

" — and say things we don't really mean?" Casey supplied.

"Right."

"And when I get nervous...I can't think, and then all sorts of crap comes out."

"Which is what you want to avoid."

"Or nothing comes out — Dr. Yves?"

"Yes?"

"Sometimes when it gets like that, I feel like there's this big..." Casey searched for words, and gave up. "...a big thing inside, like this feeling that's really big and weird and complicated and I think there's really no way to put it into words. I used to tell Zeke that and he'd get mad. He thinks everything can be explained in words but I don't know...what do you think?"

"What do I think?" Dr. Yves clasped her hands on her lap. "What do you think, Casey?"

Casey let himself scowl for the second time within minutes. "I just told you what I think."

She gave him the point with a nod. "Fair enough. Well, I tend to think more like Zeke. I have to, or I wouldn't be in this line of work, Casey. I think we can make a reasonable attempt to describe and express most feelings, or at least...we have to make the effort. But at the same time, I think the human heart is a marvellously complex and wonderful thing and I'm glad it is. I think I'd be pretty foolish to assume that I could ever get a complete handle on it. I'd rather think that there are parts of the human soul that aren't really my province. Does that answer your question, Casey?"

He felt something inside him relax for the first time since — well, perhaps for the first time ever but certainly since this morning when he had zoned and then outside the apartment, breathing the clean air and wondering if all the aliens wouldn't rather worship him than destroy him. He didn't want to have to tell her things that he didn't understand himself, things that he didn't particularly want to understand. Something told him that there were always going to be ideas and thoughts and moments that he wanted just to have...not to analyze.

"Yeah," he whispered.

"Were you worried that you would have to tell me absolutely everything, Casey?"

"Maybe."

"That's not my job, Casey. I'm not here to search out and destroy every last little thing that makes you unique. There may be things that you never need to tell me because they don't get in the way of you living a healthy, full life. The key is in understanding the difference. You follow me?"

"Yes," he said.

"I thought you would," she said, and smiled. "Now, having said that, can we agree to trying to explain some of Casey to Zeke?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to write down what you just explained to me and then we can go over it together? We only have about fifteen minute left."

"Okay."

Those minutes flew by as he struggled to contain the feelings in written form and in the end she had to pronounce that his statement seemed suitable. Then there was nothing for him to do but to fold it in half, then in quarters, and put it into his jeans pocket — until he recalled Sasha, waiting for him out in the reception area. And his father, waiting at home.

"Dr. Yves."

"Yes, Casey."

"I forgot to tell you before...um my dad's leaving tomorrow."

"Yes...are you going to miss him?"

"Yeah, I think so. But his plane leaves in the morning."

She nodded, looking up from her calendar and giving him her full attention. "Do you want to go to the airport with him?"

"Kinda..."

"Okay, well how about this? We'll skip tomorrow so you can go to the airport with your dad. And I think it will be good for you to have that talk with Zeke before you and I see each other again."

He shivered.

"You will handle it, Casey. You can handle it."

He wasn't so sure.

"You don't think so?"

"I...I don't even know if I can move out. And I know we don't really have any time but..."

"Yes?"

"I don't know what to do about Sasha."

"What do you mean?"

"He doesn't want me to move out."

She got on her feet, clearly preparing to show him out. "That's not surprising."

"I don't know what to do. He's such a good friend and — and I'm scared of not having him around."

"Well, Casey, I don't know what to tell you. I know Sasha feels very responsible for you but you can't control that. The only thing you can control is what you do, and Sasha will respect your choice, I'm sure."

"I'm not so sure," Casey mumbled.

"What's that?"

"I don't know what he'll do. He seems to — to need to take care of me."

"Hmm," Dr. Yves said only. "I'm sorry, Casey, but this really deserves a longer discussion. We'll try to deal with this on Friday if we can, but one thing at a time, right?"

He nodded, trying not to look glum.

Down the hall Sasha was waiting, with an oddly hopeful expression, like maybe he hoped that Yves had told Casey to give up the mad idea of moving out. Casey had nothing of the kind to offer.

They returned home, where they collected Jerry and Casey's father, then headed across the street to the Bayview. Jerry seemed like he might have wanted to debate it, to argue for something a little more upscale but after a quick glance at Casey's father, he relented without a word, and Casey was relieved. He didn't want anything else new this morning. The diner was as close to secure as any place outside the apartment could get.

Still it didn't exactly feel safe, sitting there with Sasha, Jerry and his father, and without Zeke. He tried not to dwell on it, spending most of his time watching his father, wondering if his father would really get on that plane tomorrow. A part of him said don't go and a part of him contradicted with yes, go. Mostly, yes, go had the upper hand. He wanted his father to go home now, feeling content with his part in things over the past several days.

Jerry had actually managed to persuade Casey's father to try something as exotic as a smoked salmon omelet. His father had pronounced it "decent", something of a triumph for Jerry. It was also something of a triumph that Jerry and Sasha were holding each other's hands lightly on top of the table, and the man barely seemed to notice, or at least he was working hard at not noticing. He didn't, however, fail to notice Casey watching him.

"Something the matter?" he said to Casey unexpectedly, causing Jerry and Sasha to snap looks at him.

"Nothing..." Casey cast a look at his waffles. He heard his father snort and looked up. "Dad."

"Yeah."

"It's okay."

"What's okay?" his father said, glancing at the other two men, his cheeks pinking.

"I mean, don't worry about me."

His father snorted again, a bit more forcefully this time. "Well, I am going to worry. Parents' prerogative."

Casey had no response to that. He dug out a chunk of waffle and chewed it.

"I'll worry the whole time between now and the end of the month," his father added, "when your mom and I get back here for that visit."

It was clunky, but Casey heard what his father was attempting. He nodded and smiled a little.

Eventually, there was some discussion over what to do with the day. Casey endured it for a while, then managed to drop in the suggestion that he'd like to stay home, and his father immediately concurred. Casey was rational enough to know that Zeke wouldn't show up, but the larger part of him, which was not at all rational, thank you very much, was convinced that he needed to be at home, just in case.

So while Sasha and Jerry made the daily run to their favourite grocery store — Sasha wanted to pick up items not only for supper but for the breakfast he'd promised Zeke, now postponed to tomorrow — Casey and his father went to Video Now and Then to rent some movies.

"Casey!" Dmitri greeted him when he walked in. "Long time no play game!" He examined Casey critically, no doubt noticing that he wasn't entirely healthy in overall appearance and demeanour, but he said only, "How are you?"

"I'm good."

"And your Christmas?"

"It was...an adventure." Casey shifted his body slightly to indicate his father. "Dmitri, this is my dad. He's visiting."

"Good to meet you!" The two men shook hands. "Casey and I have a little challenge going, Mr. Connor. I try to find movies he hasn't seen and we keep track...he seems to win free rentals from me every month."

"Oh," Casey's father said. "So...he's seen a lot of them, huh?"

"More than me, that's for sure." Dmitri smiled broadly. "Seriously, he's amazing, your son. I don't know how someone so young found the time."

Casey shrugged and stared at the floor.

"Okay!" Dmitri exclaimed. "I'll leave you alone, you probably want to browse, eh? Good to see you, Casey. Oh, and Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year to you too," Casey mumbled, taking a few steps away from him, towards the displays. "Um...so, Dad, what do you want to watch?"

"Oh, I don't care."

"Okay..." Casey returned, like he didn't care except that he did and before he could know he was going to do it or otherwise take steps to stop it, annoyance mingled with curiosity compelled him to say, "But Dad, aren't there any movies that you like?"

"It doesn't matter."

"But I want to know. It's your last night here, we should do something fun for you."

His father had the look of a pinned rabbit. "Casey, you know I'm kind of...well, I don't really think much about movies."

This statement drew a glance from Dmitri that Casey was careful not notice. "Oh, come on," Casey urged.

His father scowled, then looked a bit furtive, then finally ventured, "I've always kind of wanted to see..."

"Yeah?"

"There's this movie about baseball."

Casey heard Dmitri made a tiny sound. "Un-huh. More detail, Dad."

"There's a corn field — "

"You haven't seen it?" Casey blurted in disbelief, then curbed himself. "Yeah, we could get that one."

"What about — Sasha and Jerry?"

Casey shrugged. "I think they like that one."

His father raised his brows in exaggerated dismay. "Uh-oh...well, then...maybe I had better not watch it." And he grinned, and Casey realized that his father was attempting a Gay Joke. He laughed, although he would really rather have hugged him.

Dmitri excavated Field of Dreams for them and they returned to the apartment. En route, Casey managed to keep up the mood, kidding to his father that after the football game at the end of the month, his father was going to owe him at least three gay entertainments and giggling at the expression on his father's face at the word "entertainments". The man nodded agreement even though he apparently thought he was agreeing to some sort of cross-dressing cabaret.

Surreal didn't cover it.

Then there was the idea, the fact of spending the rest of the day peacefully hanging out, being enlisted by Sasha as usual in the cooking as though idle hands made for depressive thoughts and the mere prospect of pounding and rolling chicken was enough to stave it off, later sitting down to a meal of stuffed chicken breasts with a rice-shaped pasta called orzo that Casey had never seen before, plus roasted vegetables and strawberries dowsed in some sort of orange custard sauce for dessert. Sasha claimed that it was a classic but Casey didn't care, all he knew was it was delicious, and he ate half the bowl himself. Then they were sitting down to watch Field of Dreams and Casey wondered what kind of monster he was now that he could enjoy this day — ostensibly one of the worst days of his life — knowing that it was definitely one of the worst days of Zeke's life, that Zeke was at Stokely's being sick and miserable. He felt vaguely like he should be suffering too, and he could easily let himself get worked up by thinking about his imminent move from this cozy setting...but then he would remember that he really needed to put on a good show for his father. His father wouldn't feel good about leaving tomorrow if Casey was a mess.

And like Yves had said, it wasn't like Casey had sat on Zeke and poured the alcohol down his throat. In truth, whenever Casey thought about Zeke being that sick, there was a rush of emotion, stuff that seemed to fit the description of worried, disgusted and disappointed, and if he really thought about it — which he was not going to do, no. He couldn't afford to feel angry when he finally did confront Zeke, so he was not fucking angry. He was not.

Well, one thing was for sure, he was sitting down to watch this movie with entirely the wrong frame of mind. In his head was a kind of knotted up little black mess, but there was nothing he could do about it until he actually got to talk to Zeke. So Costner's good ‘ole American charm bugged him, the censorious townspeople enraged him and the whole father-son shtick was just too obvious...and that sentimental baseball crap was...just crap. He kept it to himself, though, and focussed on how much his father had seemed to enjoy it. So much, in fact, that Casey detected tears in his father's eyes as the credits rolled.

Casey didn't want to deal with those tears, which he supposed made him a selfish monster all over again. In fact, Casey wanted nothing but to retreat to bed. He made a show of yawning, not that it was difficult.

And Sasha was nothing if not predictable. "Tired, kitten?"

He nodded. "I'm going to go to bed."

"Okay..." Sasha was standing up, as though Casey needed an escort. He took a step in Casey's direction, looked down at Jerry, then stopped. "Well...good night. Sleep well."

"G'night."

Jerry and Casey's father added to the chorus. Casey waved in their direction and beat a path to the bedroom. Pulling off his clothes and slipping into sweats and a t- shirt, he threw himself on Sasha's bed. After a moment of quiet, close-lidded contemplation, he turned to his journal.

I really do love Sasha, but sometimes I get this feeling when I'm around him, like I can't breathe, I mean different from the usual. He's so sweet and good but does he always have to be in my space? I mean

I can't believe I just wrote that. I like having Sasha around and he wouldn't be so

Casey floundered for a word.

parental if I hadn't given him a reason to think I liked it. I guess I do like it. I just don't know if I can take all the cuddling right now.

I guess it's pretty obvious now that I don't want any touching for a while. They all think it's because of what Roy and Janice did but I think it started before that. It's something that's a part of me. It's that thing that makes me want whatever I can get, and it makes me trouble, everyone sees it and they have to answer, to try and make it go away and it makes them crazy too so then they start hurting me.

I know what you'd probably say now, Yves, but this is my fucking journal.

I guess I decided at some point to go with this thing but I don't remember when. I just know it's how I got Roy and Zeke to want me but after a while it hurts too much. It gets out of hand.

I'm so sorry, Zeke. I can't help it. Give me time and I'll work harder at loving you. I'll try so hard, I promise. Just let me be for now.

Casey rested his head on his journal and sighed.

"Everyone just let me be," he whispered.

 

Waking the next morning, he was taken aback to discover that he felt rested — a surprise considering the kind of days he was having — and not only that, he was hungry. In fact, it was the hunger that finally moved him to roll over and be awake. Even so, the bed felt so good he didn't want to move. He lay there with his hand over his eyes until he drowsed, and slept again. This time he dreamt. His father and Sasha were running away together and they were talking about what to pack.

" — him up. Casey."

Sasha wanted to pack his silk shirt and his father kept insisting that it was too gay for where they were going.

"Casey."

"Umm."

"Cay-see…"

"I'm sleeping," he mumbled.

"It's time to get up."

"No, it's not."

"But we have to leave for the airport soon."

Casey sat up immediately, making white sparks cluster in his vision for a second. "Why didn't you say so?"

"I just did."

There was a massive crust of sleep around his eyes. Casey rubbed at it, yawning. "What time is it?"

"Nine-ish."

"Did Zeke call?"

"Not yet. Are you coming to the airport?"

"Yeah. Shower?"

"It's all yours, kitten, but make it quick. We have to hit the road shortly."

"His plane's not until eleven-thirty — "

"But if we don't leave in fifteen minutes your dad will pop a vein. He's loading his luggage into the car even as we speak."

"Okay," Casey sighed. "Um...you think Zeke won't mind — ?"

"If we use his car?" Sasha looked innocent. "When has he ever minded?"

"It's... kind of different this time."

"Yeah, well...what he doesn't know won't hurt him, right? Come on, kitten...chop, chop."

Casey was dressed and showered in twelve minutes, including the few that he lost to the siren call of the hot water, to the momentary fantasy that he could dissolve and join with the flow, catching himself just as the droplets blurred. Next time, he had promised them, smiling as they ran softly over his face. After all, no one had to know what he did as long as he kept to task and to schedule. Funny, that hadn't occurred to him before. He didn't have to stop zoning if he didn't want to. If he did what was expected of him and didn't let anyone else see when he didn't, it wouldn't do him any harm. It was his, just for him.

Okay. Wash his hair, dry off, get dressed. Easy.

"Did Zeke call while I was in the shower?" he asked, joining his father and Sasha in the entranceway. His father frowned at the question.

"No," Sasha said. "Why don't you bring your cell, kitten, and phone from the car?"

"It's probably dead." He couldn't think of the last time he'd seen it in fact.

"No, it's on top of the microwave. It's been charging for about a month."

"Oh." He retrieved it, and then his shoes, jamming his feet into them as always, without untying them. "Let's go."

Sasha raised an eyebrow, for some reason. "All right, then."

They clambered down the stairs and Casey's mind was full of all the things he should but couldn't say to Zeke, nothing at all useful…but his father, there were things to be said there too. He thumbed the plastic cover on his phone all the way to the airport, reminding himself every few minutes that he had to think about his father's needs too, at least for a solid hour.

When they arrived, Sasha dropped them at departures and went to park the Mustang, leaving a deliberate and blatant opening for a father and son chat. They didn't speak until after Casey's father had gotten checked in, his luggage disposed of for the time being. "You…want to get a coffee?" his father asked then. "I have an hour before boarding."

"Um...okay."

The found a Starbucks on the concourse; Casey ordered a chai while Frank Connor told the bemused girl behind the counter, "I just want ordinary coffee...Do you have ordinary coffee?" With tight lips, the barista served him the lightest roast available, and Casey and his father found a seat.

"Well," said his father, fiddling with his cup, not drinking anything.

"Well," Casey echoed.

"I'm always early for planes. I don't know why."

"You're early for everything," Casey informed him. "You're a compulsive early guy."

"Compulsive..." His father wore a pensive expression. "Is that something you've learned...?"

"Not really."

"It doesn't matter. I was just wondering." With a cough, his father forged on. "I guess...you…I mean…are you going to be okay?"

"Sure."

"Really."

His father was staring at him strangely; Casey didn't have an interpretation for it. "I think," he answered. "Yeah."

"Because I need to know that."

Casey forced himself to look into his father's eyes. "I'm sorry, I can't go back to Herrington, Dad."

"It was wrong of me to ask."

"I don't think it was wrong." Casey sighed. "It's good to know…" He forced himself to say the frightening, exposing words. "...that you want me there."

"Well, of course I want you there!"

Now Casey felt like tears were a strong possibility and yet, for once, it was a possibility that could still be averted. "I didn't think you did…for a long time."

"I know." His father cleared his throat. "I'm sorry for that…sorry…for everything, Case."

Casey shook his head. "Not for everything."

His father offered a tentative smile in return. "Okay…not everything."

"Dad, I'm really glad you were here…you know, the other night and everything…and yesterday."

"I'm glad I was here too." His father looked up suddenly like he wanted to ask a question, then down just as quickly.

"What is it, Dad?"

"Um…"

"What?"

"I want to ask a question."

"Yeah."

"I know it's wrong, but I still want to ask it."

"Might as well, then." Casey braced himself for pain.

"If I was different…if I showed you more attention when you were small…do you think you would still be gay?"

Casey made himself gaze back at his father with composure. No anger, no laughter, he ordered himself. Just answer. "Yes, dad. I was always gay. It wasn't something you did."

His father sighed. Casey saw the other, more damning questions in his eyes and hoped that his father would never have the courage to ask them. He didn't think he could lie sufficiently to tell his father what he wanted to hear.

His father suddenly smacked the table with his open palm. "Damn!"

"Wh-what?" Casey stammered, decided that there would be no defending of his lifestyle if that was what his father wanted from him now. He saw people looking at them and the air in his throat began to thicken, labouring past his lips.

"I feel like I'm supposed to give you some piece of fatherly wisdom here but I've got nothing!" His father slammed the table again, only slightly less violent about it, and more desperate. "I've never had to...you always figured things out on your own."

Perhaps because of the urgency of the moment, Casey made a conscious effort to analyze it, not that it was difficult. His father had always been a bit of an open book, even if it was a book that Casey didn't have much affinity with. So then, all his father's doubts about himself were coming to a head, crashing in on his unimaginative head. It would have been much easier on him had he stayed at home because he would never have had to see his son cowering on the floor in the bathroom or have had to know just how bad it could get. And now he had to leave. It wasn't fair to him.

"You — you said some pretty good stuff," Casey offered.

"Oh, yeah? When?"

"Oh, at Christmas…you said I shouldn't panic every time my wheels…every time they fishtail."

His father scowled. "So? I was talking about driving."

"But it's still good advice."

"I meant it literally, Casey."

"Still."

His father shook his head, and then unexpectedly, he smiled.

Just then, Sasha came out of nowhere, his voice preceding him. "There you two are!" His long body filled the nearest plastic chair. "I thought you might have already gone through, Frank."

"Not yet."

"Ah…good." Sasha folded his hands on the table. "You'll be back at the end of the month, right?"

"Yeah. With Allison…" Casey's father looked at him. "But I'm not sure where we'll…where we'll be staying."

"Oh." Sasha looked dejected. "Right." He sent a furtive glance at Casey, and Casey recalled that he had a problem bigger — or at least equal to — Zeke's resistance to his moving out.

 

Being asleep had hurt, being awake had hurt. Breathing — hurt. All day he had barely moved his head and he had tried to be absolutely still for fear of vomiting for the fiftieth time. In fact, he had vomited repeatedly, and his throat was raw. He asked for water and it was brought to him by Stokely which was when he figured out that he must be at her apartment. After he'd drunk it, he had rushed to the bathroom to throw it up. It had even crossed his mind that he had alcohol poisoning and he would have considered going to the hospital if he could have moved.

One thing he knew: He was done never going to drink again. He was done with alcohol.

He heard Stokely moving about the apartment long before he was ready to admit that he was awake. It sounded like someone showering and getting dressed, ordinary things...things that Zeke thought he might like to try. He experimented first with moving, turning his head and when that passed without incident he upgraded to a full roll. No nausea threatened, and his head wasn't at risk of falling off his neck. He was, however, desperately filthy and empty. He needed water, food, a cigarette...

Casey, it was Casey he needed.

But still, a shower would be a good start, get himself clean and in reasonably decent shape with a meal in his belly and ten or so servings of nicotine, and then he would find a way to go back to the apartment, to talk to Casey, hopefully without the entire world watching.

As he sat up, the sofabed creaked. Almost on the instant, Stokely appeared. "Zeke?"

He smacked his lips. It tasted like he'd been shitting out his mouth. "Yeah."

"You okay?"

"Sorta. Need a shower."

"Right," Stokely agreed, as though it was the very least of her thoughts on the subject. Zeke knew he stank, so he didn't really feel like he should explore her comment.

He pushed with his hands to get himself out of the rather saggy sofabed, finding his feet with a bit of a sway. He found that Stokely was still there, watching him.

"Okay?" she said.

"Yup. Full steam ahead."

"You scared me yesterday, Zeke."

He nodded. "I know."

He'd scared himself. He'd never felt so awful — never. For a good part of the day, he'd been unable to keep down water.

"Um..."

"Yeah?"

"Casey called."

"When?"

"An hour or so ago. They dropped his father off at the airport."

Zeke felt a petty glow of satisfaction at that statement, at the idea that there was at least one less contender for Casey's affection.

"He said call him as soon as you're up...and cleaned up."

"He said that?"

Stokely rolled her eyes. "Okay, I added that last part."

Zeke thought he had better humour his hostess, not that it was difficult. He was offended by his own filth, so he could only imagine how bad it was for her. "Okay. I'll get clean first."

He finally took his shower, struck anew by the power of the cleansing ritual; in supernatural fashion, it was making him human again. He would have shaved too, but there was only Stokely's pink razor and girly shaving cream and it wouldn't help that his hands were shaking with more than one kind of withdrawal. He decided to wait on the shave.

Twenty minutes later, though, he presented himself for Stokely's consideration. She looked him over then nodded, handing him his own cell phone. Her eyes suggested the ritual seriousness of the moment, not that he needed anyone to tell him. He dialled home, and Casey answered.

"Zeke?" he said, foregoing any greeting.

"Yeah."

And then, true to form, Casey went silent.

"I want to talk to you," Zeke said.

"Don't."

"What — ?"

"Don't say it's over, please, I'm not that together, Zeke, I promise I'm not, I — "

Casey's voice went away.

"Zeke?" said Sasha, a second later.

"Put him back on," Zeke gritted.

"He asked me to take over if he panicked."

"Are you always going to do his talking for him?"

"No. Just when he asks." Sasha cleared his throat. "I don't want to argue, Zeke. You always get me arguing. I just wanted to do one simple thing."

"Which is?"

"Invite you over for that breakfast I promised."

"Invite me? I live there, remember?"

"Sorry, bad choice of words — cut me some slack, will you? I meant, please come home, Zeke. I'm making breakfast."

"Frank is gone, right?"

"Yes, we just drove him to the airport. And Jerry went home too, it'll just be the three of us."

"Suppose I wanted to talk to Casey alone."

"Well, if you want steak and eggs, you'll have to put up with me for a little while at least."

"All right, I'll be there shortly." Hanging up, Zeke was well aware that he was fucking up already. It did not bode well for his future happiness.

Stokely echoed his thought. "Zeke, you're being difficult," she said.

"I know, but I can't help it."

"Try."

"Why should I!?" he exploded. "I'm the one who's been fucked over!"

"I know, Zeke, we all know! But no one did it to you on purpose so try not to be such a prick!"

He blinked at her. Then he said, "You're good."

"Former champion bitch, remember?"

"You weren't a bitch. Just...misunderstood."

Stokely laughed. "Yeah, ain't we all?"

He planted a kiss on her cheek. "I'll try not to be an ass."

"Good. Um...Zeke...?"

"Yes?"

"I don't know if it helps, but — what if you moved in with me for a while?"

Careful to breathe through his nose and not snarl, he said, "I appreciate the offer, Stokes, but I'm not planning on moving anywhere...and Casey's not moving anywhere either."

"Fuck sake, Zeke — "

"He doesn't want to move, Stokely."

"Maybe, but he definitely intends to. I was going to ask him to move in with me but then I thought...well, honestly, I'm not sure I can handle it."

"And so the solution is for me to get kicked out?" he growled.

Stokely winced, shaking her head. "You don't have to take me on — or Stan, or any of us. We're your friends, you know? Friends?"

He was not in the habit of sprouting a loud, queasy feeling in his gut whenever someone tried to shame him, so he was a bit surprised when it happened now. "Just bear with me a bit," he muttered.

"We are, Zeke. We are definitely doing that."

Yeah, he knew he was a fucktard. He knew it, and now, with a little help from Stolly and Budweiser, everyone who knew him knew it.

 

"So... will you talk to me now?" Stan asked.

There had been a first beer, and a second, both downed in minutes, and not nearly enough but at least now Zeke was suitably lubricated that he could endure hearing some questions, maybe even deal with the anxious glances and eyebrow twitches. Stan was distressed, Zeke got that.

He shrugged.

Stan pressed, "What happened?"

Good question. It appeared that after months of Zeke being the one to coax and encourage him, Casey suddenly decided to use his mouth, not that it was anything like actually having a will and asserting it, and yeah, sure, Zeke would let Casey move out. Sure, he would let Casey parrot what that bitch Yves told him and then he would let Casey handle all his own shit, all by himself including suicide attempts, both direct and indirect. Zeke was not responsible for what Casey did and that was the whole point. The damn shrink had that much right. He was not responsible.

Stan was peering at him worriedly. "Zeke?"

"Huh?"

"I asked what happened."

"Casey told me he's moving out. Basically, he can't stand to be around me."

Now there was a typical Stan-expression, that drawing together of the eyebrows that typically meant I don't get it. "Since when?"

Zeke started to say Since this afternoon and rapidly revised that. Because of course it was not just since this afternoon. He rubbed his forehead and admitted, "Since forever, I guess."

"Zeke...I don't believe that."

Zeke looked at his friend in surprise. Stan had some balls, that was for sure. There had been a time when Stan would have rather have folded and stapled his tongue than talk about him and Casey and feelings, all in the same sentence. Feelings between two guys, for fuck sake.

"Okay, I'll give you that one," he said. "Maybe not forever, but somewhere along the way." He tried to wave down a waitress. "I need more beer...or a vodka. That would be good."

"I'll go up and get it," Stan said hurriedly.

As Stan wended his way through a medium-to-large crowd, Zeke settled a morose glare on the football game projected on the nearest television. It wasn't anywhere near interesting, though. Visually, he roved the room and inadvertently settled on some guy's ass. Nice shape. The man turned around and caught him — and Zeke waited for the threatened pounding.

The man winked.

Fuck that — Zeke looked away and rubbed his eyes. Had the entire world become gay? No, like everything else it was Casey's fault. Casey had done this to him.

"Yeah, right," Zeke muttered to himself. There had to be some lines drawn here. He'd had revelations already this week and he was an idiot if he didn't let some of them stick to him. So then, maybe he wasn't gay, but he was definitely bisexual, and that was cool by him, and fuck it all. And no, not everything was Casey's fault. Just all the miserable, rotten things, and the crap.

"Here you go!" Stan plunked a vodka down in front of him.

"Thanks, man." Zeke searched for the fellow who had winked but couldn't track him. It was probably just as well, since he was much more interested in getting shit-faced than having sex right now.

"Who's winning the game?"

"I don't know."

Stan was seated once more on his stool. "You know, Zeke...the thing is, this sucks now but maybe in the end it's a good thing. Like me and Stokes. I like the way we are together now, a lot more than I did before."

"Oh, cut the crap."

"No, really! I still dig her as a person, totally, but I'm kind of looking forward to checking out new people...you know what I mean?"

Zeke only hesitated for a second before returning, "But I'm in love with him, Stan."

His friend went a little pink. "I kinda figured that." Stan coughed a little. "But hey...he didn't say he never wanted to see you again, right?"

"What are you getting at?"

"He didn't say it was over, did he? I mean, maybe you guys just need a break from each other."

"Fuck, Stan, you're as bad as the shrink. I took steps, you know, we weren't sleeping together, we were just living together and that's it — "

"Don't piss on me, man."

"Well, you don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

"No, Zeke, you don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

Zeke stared.

Stan continued, "If Stokely and me had kept living together after we broke up, I would've gone crazy."

"We weren't going to break up. The idea was that we were still together."

"So, like...what? You just live together but you don't do anything?"

"Yes! Is that so crazy?"

Stan shrugged.

"People have done it before," Zeke insisted.

Stan said nothing.

"What?" Zeke demanded. He downed his vodka all at once, letting it burn all the way to his stomach. "What do you think you know?"

"I think..." Stan bit his lip for a second, then continued, "I think you want to control him."

"Fuck, yeah! He's out of control or haven't you noticed?"

"He's not the only one," Stan muttered.

"You know, I can drink alone quite easily."

"Okay, sure...and buy your own fucking drinks too while you're at it."

Stan made motions to get up and go, and Zeke took hold of his arm. "Okay. I'm sorry, man. Sorry. I'll get the next one." Stan settled once again while Zeke leaned back, searching for a waitress. He spotted one, but couldn't catch her eye. "It's not about control," he said, keeping his eyes on his search.

"What is it then?"

Zeke struggled with the words, because he really didn't have enough booze in him yet. Saying stuff like this to your male friend — excluding Sasha — could only be justified by large quantities of alcohol.

On the other hand, fuck it.

"I don't want him to go," he said. "That's all."

When he finally looked at Stan, he saw only sympathy. "I know," Stan said. "But it's not up to you, man."

"Why not?"

"It just isn't — believe me, I know."

"Well...it should be." Finally, Zeke made eye contact with a waitress. He waved, and declared, "Loving someone should give you rights over them... because they have power over you."

Stan was shaking his head. "Zeke...come on."

"Don't tell me that. I'm just saying what lots of people think — " He broke off. "Two double shots of vodka and..." He eyed Stan. "What do you want?"

"Nothing for me. I really should be getting home soon."

"Nothing for the killjoy," Zeke finished. The woman raised her eyebrows, saying nothing, and went away.

"Don't you think you should lay off, Zeke?"

"Nope."

"Are you going home tonight?"

"It's my fucking apartment too, Stan."

"Yeah...but you could crash at my place if you wanted."

"At Charly's? No, thanks."

"Okay, then I'll bet Stokes wouldn't mind."

"What do you know about it?"

"I called her before I came here, actually, so she knows."

"Really."

"She said if you wanted to — "

"Couldn't wait to pass on the news, huh?"

"Sorry — but yeah, this is big."

"And you always knew it was going to happen."

Stan didn't reply, which was answer enough.

"Right. What was it? Casey's too fucked up, I'm too fucked up...I'm too controlling, not patient enough...? Or all of the above."

"Hey, Zeke? I know we all went to school together and fought the aliens together and all that, but there's no rule that says we all have to pair up and live happily ever after."

Zeke growled, "I don't care what the rest of you do...I just want him."

Stan appeared to give up — and about time as far as Zeke was concerned, except that the fallback position appeared to be a pitying stare.

"All I'm going to do," Zeke said, smacking the table, "is talk to him. I'm going to argue and do my best to persuade him that he's temporarily lost his fucking mind. I'm entitled to do that, at least?" When Stan didn't answer, Zeke punched him in the arm. "Right?"

"Fuck! Yeah, Zeke...you're entitled to do that." Stan rubbed his arm and glared. "And I'm entitled to go home now."

"All right." Zeke suddenly recalled that there were certain social obligations in situations like this. "Hey...thanks, man."

"No problem." Stan gave him a brief, unenthusiastic grin. "It's going to work out."

Zeke didn't think much of that statement, but he nodded. "Sure."

After Stan was gone, Zeke fortified himself with ten or so shots of vodka — the fact was that he lost track after ten and only stopped because he was cut off. It was just past nine o'clock, with many potential hours of alcohol ingestion ahead of him, and he entertained thoughts of finding another bar.

But then there was the memory of Casey's face as he said I need to move out rose in his mind and he saw the fear, the resistance. Of course, Casey didn't want to move out. This was Casey, help me, Zeke, help me, don't leave me Casey, not I'm moving out Casey. It had to be some sort of ridiculous mistake that Casey regretted now. All Zeke had to do was show up — he didn't have to persuade, just remind Casey, and everything could be okay...Winona was out of the picture, Thomas was out of the picture, everything could be so good. Casey was so much better now, he was getting on track — notwithstanding that whole suicide watch thing. That was a mistake too, and it basically meant that Casey needed Zeke. Casey needed — and Zeke needed — equalled Casey and Zeke.

On his way home he was surprised to find that he was staggering often. He was soaked, too, by the time he got there, except that the rain actually felt good on his fevered skin.

Burning with purpose, he didn't announce himself, just walked up and turned the handle. The door was unlocked. He opened it to the smell of something Asian, and Jerry and Frank right there in the kitchen washing and wiping dishes, to a background of television. His fucking television set.

"I see the gang's all here," Zeke observed.

Jerry whirled, lifting sudsy hands. "Zeke!"

"Where's Casey?" Zeke was surprised at how thick his voice sounded.

A second later he didn't have to ask. Casey appeared in the hallway, blinking sleepily but moving very fast, like adrenaline had just yanked him up out of a state of dead unconsciousness. It would have had him wide awake in another second, but at almost the same moment Sasha came hurtling from the living room area and got between them, trying to get a grip on Casey, who seemed determined not to be caught — and then Frank stepped in between his son and Zeke, and Jerry had now inserted himself as well, as though it would take all of them to keep Zeke and Casey apart. Zeke liked that idea, and he liked hearing the sounds of Casey struggling, saying no like it was him and Zeke against the rest of them.

"You didn't call me for supper," Zeke said, tearing his eyes from Casey and getting them on Sasha.

"We knew where you were," Jerry said. "We figured if you wanted to come home, you would."

"I want to talk to Casey."

Sasha moved, deliberately blocking Zeke's view.

"Just sleep it off, son," said Frank Connor.

Zeke had been planning to ignore absolutely everyone except Casey, to look through and past them, impressing them with his single-mindedness — except that upon hearing Fucking Frank call him that word, he couldn't restrain the snarling that spilled from him. "I am not your son."

"Maybe not," Sasha began. "But — "

"Don't you — fucking — don't fucking reason with me!"

Zeke saw Sasha's flinch, and well…good. He should flinch. Zeke was a scary character, after all. All should flinch and quail and flee from him, all leaving him alone to abide in his utter scariness. They should all fear him, and Casey should fear him too. The difference with Casey was that he'd given himself to Zeke, he was Zeke's and scary or not, it was a done deal. He couldn't back out now, it was that simple. No matter what had happened in the past, no matter how many reasons Casey had to be frightened...Zeke just wouldn't let him.

"Casey...I want to talk to you."

He saw Casey; he had separated himself from Sasha, trying to move up beside him while his lips moved, shaping something that was completely buried by the refrain of "No!" from the other three men in the room.

Jerry had put himself at the forefront. "Listen, pal — "

"I'm not your pal and I want to talk to him."

"That ain't gonna happen," Jerry replied peacefully.

"Why don't you just take a flying fuck!"

"Zeke, go find a place to sleep it off."

"Ask him what he wants!"

"That's beside the point, you know you would do something you'll regret."

"I would never hurt him." Zeke decided he'd had enough of trying to batter down Casey's wall of protectors. "Casey? Casey, listen, it's not over, do you hear? I don't want it to be, I just want you to stay here — you're not leaving, I won't let you!"

He tried to catch Casey's eye but he was absolutely barred.

"I won't let you!" he yelled, forsaking all attempts at the appearance of sanity. The drag of alcohol on his limbs and his mind was becoming more powerful by the second, pulling him down. "Casey — you — get out of my way!"

It seemed that Sasha had his back to him. He was talking to Casey but Zeke couldn't make it out. The world was spinning, full of white sparks and haze. He really wanted to lie down, come to think of it… just lie down with Casey. Just lie down and sleep, would that be so bad? There was nothing wrong with that. He'd done it so many times and he'd never hurt Casey, he'd never even touched him, it was Casey who had kept coming on to him and he'd been strong enough then, strong enough for everyone to trust him.

"Zeke," Jerry said. "Come on. We'll go find a place for you to crash."

"I live here."

"Zeke — just trust me, okay?"

He was too tired to formulate a strategy. Just minutes ago he had been consumed by hyperactive energy but it was gone now and there was nothing left of him. He could barely stand. He heard muttering and he couldn't bear to overhear it.

He decided that he could really use a smoke before he crashed. He headed back around and out, through the door and down the stairs and fumbled for his cigarettes. He couldn't find them. All the pockets in his clothing seemed to have been glued shut.

There was a sense of motion. Things got blank and blurred but there was him stumbling and then sitting, and he was in some car that he didn't recognize. He could barely move his head, but he managed to drag it in some direction that showed him the driver.

Jerry, of course. Sasha's delivery man. Sasha's undertaker...of things...

"Wanna talk…to Casey…" Zeke slurred.

"Yeah, I know. Tomorrow, pal."

"But….wanna talk to him." "I know, buddy."

"No, you don't know! You don't! I don't talk to Casey now and by tomorrow he's different again an it'sth too fuckin' late!"

"You know…that does make a weird kind of sense."

"Then take me back!"

"Can't."

"Yesh you can! I mean, yes, you can!"

"Sasha would kill me."

"Fuck Sasha!"

"Um…"

"No, I mean it! You don't know him like I do. He acts all swishy but he's fockin' devious, he's after Casey, been after ‘im all along!"

"Now I know that you're wasted."

"He was fuckin' Roy's motherfuckin' Roy's friend, there's your first clue, loverboy!"

"You really should shut up now, Zeke."

"Oh, yeah? Sasha's so fockin' perfect, why did he let Roy do that shit to Casey? Casey should be mad at him too but he doesn't, never, should be mad at his father but no, not him, not Frank Tef-Teflon Connor, Casey just gets mad at me an' I fucked up less than anyone he knows!"

"That's probably true, buddy."

"It ish true!"

He felt a pat on his shoulder, a hand just briefly placed there and then vanished and he thought absurdly, no way, never enough, he wanted Casey…. "…want Casey…"

"I know, buddy, I know."

Zeke's hand felt his pocket, feeling for cigarettes, but what it managed to extract instead was his cell phone. Perfect serendipity — he punched the speed dial number for home. As the happy electronic chirps sounded, Jerry turned his head and saw what he was doing.

"Oh, no, Zeke, don't — "

Even wasted, Zeke knew it was childish to curl his body away so Jerry couldn't get at him. Childish but effective.

"Hello?" said Sasha's weary voice.

"Lemme talk the fuck to Casey."

"No, I will not let you talk to him."

"You don' know, you have no fuckin' right!"

"Just find someplace to sleep it off, darling."

"Don' you fuckin' call me darling. Casey's mine y'know, he's not yours. He's not yours."

"Yes, I know."

"I love him an' he's mine!"

"I know. Please, Zeke....just let us all off the hook for tonight. We'll pick up the fighting bright and early tomorrow, I promise. I just need to catch a few winks and you need to..."

"I said put him on the fuckin' phone you fuckin' bitch!"

"...a whole cow if you want...okay. Night, baby."

Mercifully, not just for him but for all concerned, he passed out not long after Sasha hung up on him.

 

He hadn't been so lucky as to truly black out. To his regret, he remembered everything — what he had said and done, how Jerry had been reduced to half-dragging and half-carrying him in to Stokely's, how he had vomited in places that were neither the toilet nor the sink. He remembered punching Stan's arm without cause, and how Stan had basically left to get out of his line of fire...and worst of all, how he'd barely noticed or cared at the time. Even while being absolutely convinced of the righteousness of his quest, he was keenly embarrassed. He had been oblivious. He had crossed the line and revealed the desperate sloppiness of his emotional state, not to mention his mistreatment of people who didn't deserve it.

"I'm going to give up booze," he said.

Stokely raised her brows. "Really?"

"Yes, really." He was never going to be that out of control again.

"Well..." Stokely hemmed. "Good for you."

"It isn't that I think I have a problem," Zeke explained. "But I see how I could have one if I don't stop it now. I'm not going to be some guy who becomes an alcoholic because his boyfriend doesn't love him."

With a sigh, Stokely said, "I'm sure Casey loves you."

"You would think," Zeke returned, then stopped himself. He closed his eyes. "I'm sorry I've been...difficult."

Stokely didn't answer immediately, apparently wanting to check his face for sincerity first. "Okay," she said warily.

"I know I'm a jerk, all right? And I'm sorry. I don't want to cause anyone any trouble."

At last Stokely smiled, shaking her head with what seemed, to Zeke, to be affection. "But you're going to go ahead and cause it if you think it's necessary."

"Of course. Maybe that makes me an idiot but I don't know how else to be."

"Zeke..." Stokely bit her lip. "Just try not to hurt him. Please?"

He thought it best not to answer that, out of deference to his hostess and the desire to retain at least one friendship.

"It's just...you didn't see him the other night."

"I don't want to hear about it, Stokes."

"Then try not to hurt you too much. How about that?"

He nodded, folding his arms. "I appreciate that. Now I'm going to go...go face the steak and eggs."

Stokely scowled, just as she was supposed to. Zeke grinned and collected his phone and his smokes. He was certainly looking forward to a change of clothing when he got home — yes, to his home. Whatever else it was, it was where he lived. His stuff was there. He was not giving it or Casey up without a fight, and he hoped someone would at least give him credit for that.

He had a choice of the bus or a cab and decided to splurge on the cab — after all, his head wasn't quite right yet and he wasn't up to listening to the inanities of the public at large. He called for the cab and bid Stokely good day and thanks, going out early to catch a smoke — or maybe even two.

As it turned out, he only had time for one. He didn't hold it against the cabbie, though, and gave him a healthy tip. Indeed, he congratulated himself as he walked around to the side of Wellth and climbed his stairs, he could be magnanimous. He was a giving sort of guy, not at all a brute or bully.

He let himself in quietly, to the savoury smell of beef and fat in the frying pan, to Sasha standing at the stove tending to the fragrances — and, just moments later, to Casey rushing into his embrace just as he'd done a hundred times before, just as though nothing whatever had happened. It was a shock. It stoke his breath, made him want to cry, scream, and mostly to shove Casey away. He remained absolutely still, only gradually bringing up his hands to gently but firmly detach their two bodies.

Casey was presenting his best, limpid stare, eyes soulful and wet, pleading, and Zeke knew he had better not buy it for a second. In the next instant Casey would be cringing at his touch, or curling up in a ball or somesuch melodrama.

"Hi, sweetheart," Sasha said.

Right as always, Zeke thought sourly; before his very eyes, Casey's look was changing. It became wary, the welcome vanishing, giving way to regret and bitter fear. Casey turned and sat down at the kitchen table. He sipped from a cup of something, anxiously watching Zeke over the rim.

Hesitating, Sasha put down his fork and crossed the few feet to hug Zeke. Zeke allowed it. "Um...feeling better?"

"Yeah."

"Good...because I made the lumberjack special for you. Hope you're hungry."

"Starving," Zeke admitted.

"Have a seat then. You're just in time, too."

"I'm just going to go and change my clothes first."

"Sure thing. How do you want your eggs?"

"Over easy?"

"And how many?"

"Three."

"Coming right up." Sasha gave him a strained smile, and went to retrieve the eggs from the fridge.

It felt cowardly, but Zeke was grateful for the excuse to get away from Casey for just a few minutes. In the bedroom, he tore off his filthy clothes and threw them in the closet laundry pile, and he didn't think he'd ever quite so enjoyed pulling on a clean pair of underwear. Once dressed, he indulged in an additional minute or two of just standing with eyes closed, breathing in and out until he felt reasonably contained. Then he headed back to the kitchen table where his platter of food was waiting.

It was all Zeke could do not to shovel the food down to his gurgling, aching stomach, even while keeping watch on Casey; as usual, Casey made it easy for him by keeping his head down. Also not a surprise, he had shunned all but some toast slathered with peanut butter and jam but Sasha, for once, did not make a fuss. Zeke figured it was Casey's loss.

"So. Frank's in the air?"

"Yeah," Sasha replied.

"Did he..." Zeke glanced at Casey, wishing that he didn't want to know, that he didn't have this ridiculous jealousy of Frank Connor. Casey didn't see him looking.

"Did he what?" Sasha asked.

"Was he okay about leaving?"

"I guess."

"Hmm. Could you pass me a piece of toast?"

Sasha provided him with the plate, with its stack of four thickly buttered slices of toasted bread. Zeke had already finished two; now he disposed of two more, along with his eggs and the steak. It was just about the best thing he had ever eaten.

Checking across the table, he saw that there were now two sets of eyes on him. "What?" he mumbled.

"Did you eat anything yesterday?" Sasha sympathized.

"Not that stayed in my stomach. What's Jerry up to today?"

"He cleared out to give us some space," Sasha replied succinctly.

"Huh," Zeke grunted. Eventually, he supposed, someone would have brought it up, and seeing as someone had already acknowledged this very awkward situation — he asked, "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Are you going to clear out?"

Sasha drew a startled breath. "Are you going to deny that I'm a part of this family?"

"‘Family'?" Zeke echoed. "Yeah, I'll deny it." Having eaten everything on his plate, he had nothing to give his attention to now except the conversation. "There's no family here."

"I beg to differ."

"You just call it that to make it into more than it is."

"Is that what you think?"

"It's what I know." Zeke shrugged. "Maybe you're feeling a little threatened right now because Casey wants to leave you too."

"I don't want to leave," Casey broke in.

"Funny, I remember it different."

"I said... I had to..." Lowering his gaze again, Casey whispered, "And then you said...you said it was over..."

"I got pissed and I reacted, but I don't want it to be over. I told you that the other night."

Casey remained still; the only sign of movement about him was his eyes, shimmering with unspoken words.

"But you still want to move out," Zeke noted. "Don't you?"

"Yes."

"You want to leave me."

Casey opened his mouth; closed it. Zeke saw the uncertainty, the fear and denial; he saw the fact that Casey didn't want to leave, he was merely infected by a fucking shrink's bullshit. It was Yves' fault, naturally, Yves was putting Casey up to this. It had been a risk all along, but Casey knew he belonged with Zeke. Zeke just had to figure out how to make Casey remember to put that ahead of all the other garbage.

"I need to say something," Sasha interjected.

Zeke almost had to sit on his hands to control them. "Sasha," he said. "Not that I don't appreciate everything you've done...but maybe you shouldn't..."

"I shouldn't what? Speak?"

To Zeke's astonishment, Casey spoke up. "Sasha," he stammered. "Will you luh-let us t-talk... please?"

"Of course you can talk, kitten."

"I mean..." Casey swallowed convulsively, staring piteously at Sasha. "Talk alone."

"No. Out of the question."

Casey seemed out of courage for the moment. He rocked in place a little, firing desperate glances at them both.

"He asked," Zeke said, knowing that it was a bad time to volunteer anything but doing it anyway.

"Maybe so, but I can't do it." Sasha leaned in towards Casey, closing some of the distance across the table. "I can't."

"How is he ever going to stand on his own two feet," Zeke pressed, "when you're determined to be his crutch?"

"Oh, you're a fine one to talk!"

"Yeah, okay..."

"He tells you he wants to move out and you forbid it? Where do you get off?"

"And I suppose you're jumping for joy."

"No, of course not — "

"You're just going to help him pack his bags, right?"

"I don't want him to move out!"

"Neither do I! That's all I'm saying!"

"Except you're threatening him with ending it to make him change his mind — "

Their attention was drawn suddenly by a crash and rattle of tableware. Both Zeke and Sasha looked to Casey, who was standing up, holding the edge of the table as though ready to perform some half-assed magic trick on it. His plate of food was is some disarray, his fork lying somewhere in between it and Sasha. "I tried speaking," he said. His eyes were wild; his chest was heaving. "Neither of you...heard me."

Zeke began, "I was just trying — "

This time Casey raised the entire table at least half a foot off the floor and simply let it fall, upsetting everything. Stainless steel clattered on porcelain and liquid spattered. The noise gave way to a near-perfect quiet.

"I'm tired of it," he panted. "I'm sick of having someone always telling me where to go and what to do and what I need and I know you're looking at me thinking how ridiculous I am right now because tonight I'll have a dream or a panic attack and I'll be clinging to you..." This was directed at Sasha alone. "...but I just...I just..."

"Casey, I just think that you — " Sasha started.

"Don't talk, please don't talk!"

Silence.

Gripping the table, Casey appeared to be fighting to stay on his feet and in the same spot. "Sasha. I...I need you to leave me and Zeke alone now."

Sasha had been pale; now he was grey. "You don't know what you're asking, Casey."

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't." Sasha pushed his chair back and stood, towering over Casey. "Let's get something straight here. This goes way past guilt. Roy taught me a lesson about responsibility and I'm applying it. I hear you loud and clear, Casey, I do. You want me to get out of the way for a bit — god, I hear you, and I want to, but I also know you're not asking because you want to have a nice chitchat with Zeke. I know that's not how it's going to go, so why would I leave? Why would I when I'm the one who has to listen to you crying in your sleep — and you don't just say Roy's name, either. You've mentioned Zeke more than a few times — "

"I had a dream with you in it a few nights ago."

Zeke felt his eyes bulge. He sat there, petrified.

"What do you mean by that?"

"A bad dream. You were hurting me."

Tears began to well visibly in Sasha's eyes. He whispered, "Why would you say something like that?"

"Because I'm tr — "

"That's just about the only cruel thing you've ever said to me."

"No, I didn't mean — I had a reason."

"What?" Sasha drifted into his chair, his shoulders falling.

"You — you lumped them, you made it sound like Roy and Zeke are the same but they're not — and you, you — you would — you would — " Casey closed his eyes again. He finished with difficulty, "You would leave me alone with Zeke all the time before."

"And I would worry."

"But Zeke isn't like Roy, he's...he's...Zeke...and I need to explain it to him and I can't do that with you here...can hardly do that as it is. I need to be able to tell him."

Zeke found that he had to turn his head away. He couldn't bear how Sasha looked right now.

"Okay," Sasha said softly. Zeke could tell from the sound that he was crying. "Message received. I'll go see if Jerry will take me in for the night." A hollow laugh. "No, of course he will. He's been telling me this would happen. ‘At some point he'll tell you to butt out, Sasha.'"

"No — " Casey protested.

"Just let me get my coat and I'll be out of here." He paused, and Zeke finally looked at him, saw him standing there with his hands open, looking helpless and bereft. "Sasha." Casey's lips formed the word, yet almost no sound came out.

"Don't backpedal now, Casey," Sasha said, holding his chin up. Suddenly he crumpled, and made haste for the door. Casey seemed about to cry out, but caught himself and twisted around, staring after Sasha. "Don't worry," Sasha choked, just before exited. "You know I'll be back. I'll phone first."

Then he was gone, the door shutting after him.

And now Casey had become completely other to Zeke. Looking at him, Zeke saw him as though he were swimming in some thick ocean of difference that made him somehow shimmer to Zeke's eyes, every twitch reduced to slow motion. He could almost see the blood pulsing under Casey's skin, the nerves firing. "Wow," was the only word he could produce. And he was truly afraid — for if Casey would kick Sasha out, there could be nothing he couldn't do.

Casey shook his head. "Don't say anything."

"I just wanted to say that I admire — "

"I said don't!" Casey cried.

"You know he'll come around."

"Zeke."

"Okay. Okay." Zeke's eye fell on the table and the floor, both strewn with the wreckage of breakfast and he said the first thing that came to mind. "How about we clean up?"

"Okay," Casey said. He began stacking plates, his hands shaking quite visibly.

It was relatively relaxing to have a task, if not in fact relaxed. Zeke washed, while Casey wiped up the mess he had made in the dining area, and then began to dry the dishes. Zeke literally had nothing to say. He was intensely conscious of Casey beside him, conscious that Casey was rigid with anxiety at his presence. He was careful not to touch Casey but they did brush hands at one point and Zeke felt Casey flinch as though he'd put his finger in an electrical socket.

"Can I just say one thing?" Zeke asked suddenly, surprising himself. He stuck to his task, though, soaping and rinsing the breakfast plates.

"Yes," Casey sighed.

"I like it when you defend my honour."

He sensed that Casey was not unduly threatened by this; his body language didn't change, at least.

"Sasha...sometimes he doesn't give you enough credit," Casey said.

"And what about you?"

Casey shifted infinitesimally away from Zeke. "What about me?"

"Can you give me some credit?"

"Of course."

"But still you won't trust me."

The absence of speech developed out of a pause into a gap, to a gaping hole, and ultimately Casey stopped wiping dishes and backed up, gripping the cloth.

"What the fuck do you think I'm going to do to you?" Zeke wanted to know. He took his hands from the water and stood there dripping on the floor while Casey refused him the thing that he needed; in fact, he was backing away. "Where are you — I'm not going to hurt you!"

"No, I have — I have something — "

Casey dropped the cloth and disappeared.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck..." Zeke kept it under his breath as he bent down to retrieve the cloth. He wiped his hands with it, indulging as he did so in another chorus of "The Fuck Song".

Then Casey was back in the kitchen and he was holding something — a folded up piece of paper, it looked like. He unfurled it, fumbling with it. "I want to, um..."

"No fucking way," Zeke snapped.

Casey's eyes rounded to mythic dimensions.

"No way are you going to read some fucking prepared script — "

Casey's mouth flopped. "But —but I — "

"— some script that Yves gave you."

"No, no!" Casey's head whipped from side to side. "It's not that."

"Well, what is it, then?"

"Me."

"You...what do you mean, you?"

"It's — it's me, Zeke — not her — she just helped."

Zeke rolled his eyes. "It doesn't matter. I heard what you said before, Casey. You want us to be apart for a while so we can both get sorted out and so you won't be afraid of me anymore, and you think we can't live together while we do this because I'm going to lose control and have my way with you."

"But there's — there's more — "

Zeke folded his arms. "More."

"Yeah."

"Like what more?"

Casey blinked hard. "Why don't you just let me — ?"

"Because!" Zeke bellowed.

Casey took a step back, twitching. If he had been a cat his ears would have been flat. Even as Zeke watched, he took another distancing step, and another. Zeke forced himself not to react, to not be angry. He knew why Casey was afraid — he knew, for fuck sake, he'd researched it so he couldn't act like he was oblivious. That was just — well, that would make him a bully, and a coward like all bullies. One thing he had never been, he hoped. No. He was not...intentionally, anyway.

"Okay," he said, drawing breath with great deliberation. "I understand that you just want to be in your own space right now. I do get that, and I also get — that maybe you can't help getting scared right now. I understand that, Casey."

After all, he had been the one to confront Casey about it, just barely over a week ago now, how could it feel like such a fucking long time and it was pretty stupid and petty of him to be angry about it now, seeing as he had pointed it out. But...well, fuck it.

"And I know you're going to deal with it and it will get better. Because you are getting better in leaps and bounds, Case, I can see it happening right in front of me and it's — it's awesome. It's incredible and I..." Without warning, Zeke's throat closed so tight, he didn't think he'd be able to continue. He heard Casey breathing, actually could hear Casey waiting for him but he was not about to say I want to be a part of it like Sasha, like your fucking father, they were a part of it and I'm not, it's not fucking fair.

He heard Casey stop waiting for him; draw breath to speak.

"I don't get why we can't!" he blurted, in dread of what Casey might say, even if it was stupid and sheer nonsense. He kicked out, making contact with the nearest cupboard door. "I don't!" he yelled. "I don't get any of it! I mean, you are just a person, aren't you, so why do I lose it every time I look at you? This is not me.!" Which, his analytical brain informed him with some satisfaction as he kicked the cupboard again, was the entire point. This was not him, kicking things and yelling stuff that didn't connect with the subject at hand. He wanted Casey to know just how not himself he was feeling.

Casey was standing there motionless, a hunted creature who had somehow just overcome every instinct to bolt.

"This is fucking bullshit," Zeke raged. "Come on, tell me how it's all your fault, how you've done this to me. Get me to say it's crap, tell you I'm not your problem and you're not mine because we both know I don't blame other people for what I feel."

Casey lifted his chin. "Yes, you do."

Zeke was surprised out of a reply.

"You do blame me, every time you...you ask why you feel a certain way...you ask what I'm doing to you, why you feel...you feel weak. You blame me because you feel out of control."

Deliberately, Zeke took a menacing step. "Shut up."

Casey paled but shook his head. "I am the problem — because you make me the problem — because of...of what I am."

"And what are you?" Zeke couldn't help asking.

Eyes glittering, Casey whispered, "I'm her."

Zeke could only burst out laughing, it was so ridiculous, so sick.

"She changed me, Zeke. I'm what she left behind — "

"Shut up!" Took a violent step forward and stalled himself when he saw Casey scrabbling back. Through gritted teeth he declared, "You're not her, you're just...a person, you know. I mean..." He tried for a laugh. "We've both been going on this assumption that you're so special, so different — yeah, I admit I was thinking that way and it isn't good for either of us, Casey." His very rational speech was nearly obliterated by the way that his voice shuddered.

"You don't believe that."

"You're just this kid — this guy — " Zeke choked on his words, almost losing them. "This guy that I — and I'm just a guy too and there's no such thing as an uncontrollable passion."

He should have avoided Casey's eyes then, for Casey looked directly at him, into him — godfuckingdammit, they were just two blue eyes in a face and Zeke was not going to go ahead and rip them out. He was going to get a handle on this situation.

"What, already?" he spat.

"I wish..."

"Yes?"

"Why won't you let me explain?"

"Today isn't about you explaining, Casey. Today is about me trying to change your mind."

Casey actually sounded testy when he answered. "How?"

"You don't think I can control myself. I know that I can."

Casey gave a helpless shake of his head.

"We'll spend the rest of the day — and the night — together. We can stay in or go out, I don't care, but we're going to go to bed together and sleep and in the morning you'll reconsider your plan to move out."

"I — I — "

"If it turns out I can't control myself, if I so much as touch you, then I'll admit you're right. I'll say I'm wrong and you can go with my blessing."

"What if I say no?"

"You can't. You accused me of being weak and didn't give me a chance to prove myself. I thought I'd already proved myself, over and over since last summer but I guess I have to do it one more time."

"Zeke — "

"It's the only way I'll let you go, Casey."

It was interesting to see how Casey felt entitled to be angry about this, how he folded his arms and glowered, and he very nearly stamped his foot.

"What? You think it's too much? You think I'm nuts?"

"Yeah."

"Well, you said it yourself, then. This is what you've reduced me to. I have to show you that I can control things. I need you to know that."

"I'm so sorry, Zeke."

"Yeah. I know, but it doesn't help right now. So what do you want to do for the rest of the day? You want to hang out and watch movies?"

"What do you want to do?" Casey muttered, studying the floor.

Zeke hadn't actually turned his mind to the question. "You'll do anything I want?"

Casey nodded.

"I think... I'd like to take you out somewhere. You know, like regular people do...and since you seem to be doing better with the anxiety."

"Okay," Casey said. "Where?"

Zeke considered Casey's downturned face. "Tell you what. Why don't you get ready — wear that outfit you wore when we went out for supper with my father that time, okay?"

Casey glanced up, stared briefly. "Kay," he whispered.

"I'm going to get dressed too...I'll think about it while we do that."

"I want to use the bedroom first."

"What...you mean you didn't move your clothes?"

"Didn't know where to put them."

"Oh. Well, there's no reason why we can't get dressed at the same time. We've seen every inch of each other already."

Casey just pinned a glare on him, then stalked down the hall. Zeke thought he had won the point, until he saw Casey emerge less than a minute later with an armful of clothes. He turned precisely into the bathroom and slammed the door.

"Don't you dare lock that!" Zeke called. He didn't know if Casey obeyed or not but it was probably better not to find out. He went into the bedroom — his bedroom, still — and for symmetry, he dragged on the shirt and jacket he had worn to dinner with his father, then went to the bathroom door and knocked. Casey opened up without so much as a pause, staring up at Zeke, perfectly transformed as before into that creature that made Zeke itch to rub his eyes, to check them for malfunction.

He strode past the creature as if it had no effect on him. "I'm gonna shave...just in case I get some, you know." The moment he said it he knew he was being cruel and ridiculous besides. His hands were shaking too.

For some reason Casey sat down on the toilet seat; he drew his feet up and made a ball of himself, the fake leather pants creaking. While scraping the growth from his face Zeke found himself looking frequently over at Casey, saw him with his head lying on his knees, tilted sideways. It made Zeke remember another, similar image. How many such images, how many Caseys were out there, captured by Roy? Hundreds, maybe thousands — but now Casey had lifted his head to stare at Zeke, frowning as though pained by something.

"What?" Zeke demanded.

"Huh?"

"You're looking at me."

Casey put his head back against his knees. "You're looking at me," he returned.

"Well..." Zeke rinsed his razor, insisting to himself that he stop shaking. "Maybe I can't help it. You are pretty photogenic."

He didn't fail to observe and enjoy Casey's flush at his comment. He put his razor away, as though he weren't planning on going anywhere, and splashed cool water on his face. While he was patting on some aftershave, Casey disappeared.

He was discovered by Zeke near the door to the apartment. He was wearing his shoes and his jacket; the orange scarf Sasha had given him was wound around his neck. "I'm ready," he said, but a flicker of lashes betrayed him. He wanted out of the apartment, from the walls that enclosed him in privacy with Zeke and where anything could happen. He thought he would be safe from Zeke out there. Zeke knew better.

Zeke rubbed his forehead. He was a freaking lunatic but he couldn't stop now.

"Headache?" Casey asked softly.

"Yeah."

"We — we could stay in — "

Zeke dropped his hand and squared his shoulders. "Oh, no. I want my first date with you before you try to dump me."

"Zeke — "

"Get out that door."

Casey gave him the same long, considering, fucking steady look that Zeke was beginning to know and recognize. With a nod, Casey went out, leaving Zeke feeling very much like a toddler being tolerated by its parent, and just barely at that. By now he would have much rather laid down and deposited his head in a bucket of ice — but too late now. He would just have to go through with the fuck-awfulness that he had made for himself.

Not a minute later they were standing in the alleyway, wondering silently at each other. "Walking or driving?" Casey asked.

Zeke had just barely turned his mind to it, but now that he did, he had an image of Casey and himself in the car, on a mountain road. "Driving."

He didn't exactly know where he was going but he could guess. He took them in the direction of the water until he found a sign for some oceanview route and turned onto it. Up until that point Casey had been utterly silent but now he said, "Where are we going?"

"Just driving," Zeke grunted.

The view would have been better if it hadn't been so foggy, but it was still nice. The highway was two lanes, steeply graded and windy, peppered with signs for inns and restaurants, all with picturesque names like "Craggy Cove" and "Bird's Eye". Casey seemed interested in the view; he kept his eyes turned from Zeke, mostly, while Zeke found himself more and more compelled by the view of Casey. The few times that Casey glanced back in his direction, he would quickly turn his head away.

After the fourth or fifth such episode, Casey asked again, "Where are we going?"

"I just feel like driving."

Casey nodded, made as if to stare out the window again. Then he said, "Have you ever seen Vertigo?"

"No." There was a quiet, and Zeke decided to humour him. It was a date, after all. He said, "What's it about?"

"Jimmy Stewart plays this guy — he's an ex-cop, with a fear of heights. He's hired by this old friend of his to watch his wife."

"Why, because she's slutting around?"

"No, because he's afraid she's going to kill herself. See, he thinks his wife — her name is Madeline — that she's possessed by the ghost of her grandmother."

"Okay," Zeke granted, with a shake of his head.

"So Jimmy follows her around...and she's all cold and distant, but beautiful, right?"

"Of course."

"I forget how — oh, yeah, one day he saves her when she falls in the water, and then they get to know each other. And they fall in love even though she believes she's doomed, but he believes that he can save her. There's this bit where he follows her out to this old church with a tower and he tries to stop her, he says he won't lose her. But then he does. She climbs up the tower but — "

"He can't follow because of his phobia." Zeke was amazed at how calm he sounded when his heart was racing.

"Right. And he sees her fall, and she dies. And then he completely loses it."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I'm getting to that. He's all wracked with guilt and kind of broken. Then one day he sees this woman who looks exactly like Madeline, but with dark hair. I mean, exactly. Same actress. He kind of stalks her, he asks her out and they start dating, but he turns her into the image of Madeline. He changes her hair and her clothes and make-up and she is totally Madeline. It's incredibly creepy."

"I don't see why she'd let him do that to her," Zeke groused.

"Well, the thing is...she is the same woman."

"The same...he was set up, wasn't he?"

"Yes. The husband wanted to kill his wife so he made up this whole story and got this woman to play the part. He pushed his real wife out the tower, and Jimmy never knew that the fake wife was safe up there. And the catch is, the woman...Judy, she fell in love with him too. She's desperate to have him love her while he's in love with someone who doesn't exist. So that's why she lets him give her a makeover."

"Un-huh." Zeke's hands were sweating on the steering wheel.

"Then she makes a mistake. She wears a piece of jewelry that the husband gave her. Jimmy recognizes it and he figures the whole thing out. He takes her on this long drive back to the church. She doesn't know where they're going and when she asks he says, ‘he just feels like driving'."

"Ah," Zeke realized.

"It just reminded me of that scene, when you said that."

"I see. So..." Zeke swallowed, not certain that he wanted to ask the question but compelled to all the same. "What happens?" He felt Casey's eyes tracing his face, then moving back to stare distantly out the window while speaking the rest of the tragedy — for tragedy had to be inevitable here.

"When he gets to the church he confronts her. He drags her all the way up to the top of the tower with her fighting and crying and telling him how she loves him. He overcomes his vertigo and just when you're not sure what's going to happen and you think maybe in some weird way they'll end up together, she gets surprised by something — oh, yeah, there's this nun who shows up and scares her. She falls and dies."

"And — ?" Zeke prompted, his stomach boiling and churning and reminding him that, less than forty-eight hours ago, he had consumed far too much alcohol for his own good.

"And that's the end."

There were a million insects buzzing in Zeke's brain, each one tittering of some slightly different emotion. He wanted to pull over and scream, or shout, or maybe just tear Casey apart. He was thirsty, he needed to piss, to throw up...to have drink, or maybe a nice pill. Anything that would help him get the insects to shut up.

It could have been one minute or one hour, and he was somehow still driving, blind. If Casey had said anything further to him, he didn't know it. Examining the sky, he thought it might be late afternoon — the sun had lowered, painting a canvas of pink, yellow and orange through the cloud — or maybe he had driven through the night and they were lost, flying through a vaccuum.

His eye was caught by a structure up on a promontory. It was blazing with warm light and there were a number of cars. He slowed and turned in to the parking lot.

"What — ?" Casey said, with an anxious stare.

"I thought we'd check it out."

"Zeke," Casey said, his voice trembling, "What do you want?"

"I told you, Casey. We're just spending time together. It looks like they have a restaurant here and I want to check it out."

"Oh."

"You can handle it, right?"

Casey swallowed visibly. "Just don't..."

"Don't what?"

"Don't let anyone touch me."

Zeke heard the unspoken including you, Zeke. He got out of the car and waited for Casey to join him. They walked up side by side; Zeke was careful that their shoulders didn't so much as brush.

The establishment was both a restaurant and inn, and acting on some almost subconscious knowledge, Zeke went directly to the concierge's desk. "Do you have any rooms available?" he asked.

"You're in luck," the attendant replied, smiling. "We've just had a cancellation an hour ago." She winked.

"I'll take it."

Zeke felt a tug on his arm and ignored it. He went through the motions of registering, conscious of Casey's eyes boring into his back. Only when it was complete and he had the key in his hand did he turn..

"What are you doing?" Casey whispered.

Zeke verified that he had enough space and proceeded to backed Casey into the nearest wall by simply walking forward; Casey scrambled back to avoid him, his eyes darting wildly.

"Maybe I want to have a few drinks," Zeke said. There was a twinge of guilty memory; he had promised himself he was not going to drink for the foreseeable future, but he needed to do something to feel normal, and food and drink seemed like a common sense answer.

"I can drive," Casey said.

"Barely."

"I can drive."

"What's the matter? You think you're safer in our bed at home? Maybe you're hoping Sasha will crash the party, huh?"

Casey lifted his gaze deliberately. "No."

"Okay, then."

"I just don't see why we need to stay here."

"You ever hear of romance?"

"I don't need it."

"I know," Zeke growled, feeling his rage unleashed. "But maybe I'd like to try it. And that's bullshit, by the way, you not being interested in romance. What do you think that Vertigo movie is about?"

"Not romance," Casey hissed, and almost immediately wilted. "I don't want to argue."

Zeke didn't let himself respond; he didn't want to find himself on his knees begging for mercy, which was where he would be in another second.

"I'm sorry, Zeke, I just can't..." Casey shuddered, glancing into the dining room. He even looked like he might be repressing a dry heave. "If anyone...t-touches me...I might....something might happen."

"I won't let it," Zeke said, meaning it. "Okay?"

Casey looked weary more than reassured. "Okay."

Zeke gestured for Casey to go before him, so he would know that Zeke was watching his back. They walked that way to the dining room, which was nearly full. It was a small place, not much bigger than the diner, with smatterings of what Zeke considered class — white tablecloths, subtle decor — but with a very mixed bunch of clientele. Some wore jeans while others seemed to be dressed for the opera.

"For two?" inquired the host, eyeing them like he knew exactly what they were about.

"Yes."

"Right this way."

Their table, fortuitously Zeke supposed, was up against a window. A booth would have been better, except that there were no booths. At least Casey would only have to guard himself on two sides. The main problem was behind him: There was another table for two there and it was occupied, another man only inches away from Casey, who sat and immediately shaped himself into a hunch that sparked a fresh smoulder of anger in Zeke for reasons that he could barely comprehend.

The host handed them each a menu and said, "Tonight's special is cedar- planked salmon with risotto cakes and broccoli rabe. Your waiter is Lessia and she'll be right with you." The man smiled and Zeke returned it absently, holding it until the man walked away.

"You're safe," he muttered to Casey. "Try sitting up straight at least."

Casey stiffened. "So I don't embarrass you by looking like a nut?"

He had said it a bit too loudly, drawing some stares, but that was probably more likely because he did not in fact look like a nut. He looked every bit as good as he had during the outing back in November, even better because there was a slight hue of temper in his cheeks. He was furtive and frightened, ready to tear someone's throat out, but present in a way that Zeke had never seen before. That alone was making the blood pool and thicken in Zeke's groin...as though it were actually possible to be more attracted to Casey than he already was.

It couldn't be just Casey, he thought. No one had sex appeal like that, it just had to be something in Zeke's own head. So, despite the show that he put on, he was needy; he could admit to that. If only Casey would stop broadcasting his allure on all channels and all frequencies, maybe Zeke could get a handle on himself. Maybe he could stop fighting, stop having to fight. That would be nice.

"What?" Casey whispered.

"You really don't know," Zeke returned. "Do you?"

"Know what?" Casey said, his eyes getting a trifle moist. He shivered and hunched a bit more as the man behind him moved and made their chairs bump. He pulled his chair in as far as it could get, pressing his body flush against the table. His chest was nearly bent over his place-setting.

"Hi, there!" interrupted a middle-aged, smiling redhead whose physical presence was as sudden as her voice. "My name's Lessia and I'll be your server today. Can I get you something from the bar?"

If Lessia hadn't been the person who was going to supply Zeke with his alcohol, he might have punched her. "Yes, I'll have a vodka and soda, please."

"I.D. please?"

Zeke glared as he produced his driver's licence.

"Sorry," Lessia said. "Our policy is to check on everyone who looks under thirty." She glanced at Zeke's licence. "Vodka and soda it is. And for you, sir?"

Casey had somehow shrunk even further. "A coke."

"Right."

Lessia went away and Casey immediately whispered, "Do I know I'm doing what?"

Zeke shook his head. "Forget it."

Each of them then made out to be occupied with looking around — Zeke watching the sun set behind its shroud of grey sky while Casey examined the people in the restaurant — until Lessia returned. Almost at once, Zeke tipped back his vodka and downed half of it. He found Casey watching him.

"What?"

"You've been drinking a lot."

Defensive rage compressed itself into a growl. "I'm under stress."

"You nearly died — "

"I did not nearly die. I was hungover and I'm not going to let that happen again. Not that it's any of your fucking business."

Casey subsided as though he'd been stomped on — but just for a second. "It is my business."

"Spoken like our good friend the busybody."

"I'm — I'm allowed to worry about you."

Zeke made a point of finishing his drink before he answered. "You're such a fucking girl."

"I am not."

"You are, and you know it."

"You're the one who wanted romance. You're the romantic, Zeke!"

The declaration rose above the restaurant babble. Eyes turned their way, and Zeke felt his ears grow hot. He imagined that he was stained red, too. Meanwhile, Casey said back as though surprised at himself, his chest heaving.

"Okay," Zeke allowed. "Maybe I am." He rested his head in his hands. "This is just a fucking disaster, isn't it?"

Casey said nothing.

"Why did you tell me about that movie?"

Casey's eyes were huge, and midnight-shaded in the muted light. "I told you, I didn't...it just sort of occurred to me. It didn't mean anything."

"You think I'm going to kill you."

"No!" Casey gulped.

"Then why did you think of it?"

"It was just the driving thing, like I said. Anyway, he doesn't kill her."

"He drags her to that place where she dies." Casey didn't answer, and in the interim another idea occurred to Zeke. "Are you planning on jumping from any towers, Casey?"

Casey let his head fall into his hands. From beneath their canopy, a muffled voice said, "She didn't jump. She fell."

"But that's a ridiculous ending."

Casey shrugged.

"She just happens to fall out the window."

Still hiding, Casey muttered, "I didn't mean anything. I was just trying to explain the story. You wanted to know."

Zeke hunched in, speaking in a low tone. "Okay. I think it's just that I'm used to you not talking very much and if you do, it usually means something big." Zeke sat back and sighed. "You know, I don't understand why we have to be apart, Casey. You're so obviously going to be okay."

At last, Casey lifted his head to stare at him but if he had something to say it was curtailed by the return of Lessia. "Ready to order?" she chirped.

"Not yet," Zeke replied, not breaking Casey's gaze.

"All right...no rush," Lessia said, smiling. "I'll give you a few more minutes. She

went away, apparently undistressed.

Zeke whispered, "You're going to be amazing."

"I don't feel amazing now, I..." With a frustrated shake of his head, Casey begged, "Why didn't you let me read the paper to you?"

"I told you. I want to change your mind." Zeke closed his eyes, surveying the state of his body. The one drink had gone a long way to repairing and steadying him, putting him into an odd, nerve-wracked stasis. "You know, I'm not hungry."

"Me either."

"Why don't we just go up to the room?"

"Why don't we go home?"

Zeke clenched his fists under the table. "I still want my chance to prove myself...and I want it here."

"What if I don't? What if I said..." Casey was visibly trembling. "...if I said I was going to sleep in the car?"

"I'd say, then I'll be sleeping in the car too."

Just as she had before, Lessia presented herself and her question at the same moment, making Casey start. "Have you boys decided?"

"Actually," Zeke said, not taking his eyes off Casey, "We've decided we're not all that hungry."

"Oh." The woman didn't allow more than a flicker of a reaction to penetrate her professional mien.

"We're just going to take the ch — " Stopping himself, Zeke dug out his wallet and placed a twenty on the table. "That'll cover it, right?"

"Do you want ch — ?"

"Keep the change." Zeke stood up. "Come on, baby."

He didn't know why he had chosen that moment to use that word, but Casey's flinch pleased him in ways he didn't want to analyze.

All he'd ever wanted was something out of the ordinary. On the first day he'd gone with Casey to that hotel room or let Casey come with him because he wanted things not to be so normal — and he'd gotten it. And then some. He remembered lying there with Casey cuddled up to him and how he'd wanted to flee almost as much as he didn't.

Well, the joke was on him. He had never expected to reach a moment like this, where they were lying on a hotel bed, him with the remote and about a foot of wide open air between their two bodies. He'd had to argue and extort just to get this much and it wasn't nearly enough. Casey had walked under his own power to the room, but with the air of someone going to his doom, and laid himself on the bed as though lying down in a tub of snakes.

Zeke tossed down the remote, leaving the channel on some fucking awful Sci-Fi original movie about werewolves in space. "There's nothing to watch."

Casey seemed to have nothing to say.

Zeke stared up at the ceiling and mustered every last scrap of good will still left in him. "Casey."

No response.

"Casey, can I just hold you? That's all I want to do, I swear."

There was a whisper. "I know." But no movement whatsoever.

Zeke finally felt the emotions pressing on his throat. "I don't deserve this," he rasped. "I don't deserve for you to not trust me."

Casey sat up abruptly. He hugged his knees, and his back quivered, offering Zeke no enlightenment. He also sat up, trying to catch a glimpse of Casey's eyes. He was waiting, hoping that Casey would muster something, but nothing came except, "You should have let me..."

Fuck the fucking fuck.

Zeke launched himself to the side, putting his feet on the floor. He wanted a drink, or at the very least he wanted out of this room.

Casey's voice clawed at him. "Where are you going?"

"Nowhere."

"Zeke, I...I can't think...it's all..."

Zeke paced in front of the television set. "Yeah, I know."

"It's not that I don't...t-trust you."

"Except you don't."

"If you wanted...whatever you wanted...'m not scared..."

"Except you are!" Zeke shouted, rounding on Casey. "You're fucking terrified of me and it's not fair, it doesn't make sense — I'm the one who's been with you twenty- four seven and I've been patient and understanding, I never did anything like what that fucker did, and still you're — " His voice failed, imploded.

"I — " Casey whimpered, and stopped, falling back on a gaping, terrified surveillance of his personal space.

To speak, Zeke marshalled the last of his resources "You are scared, aren't you?" he ground out.

"Yes."

"Say it!"

"I'm scared of you...Zeke, I'm scared of you."

"And I don't deserve that."

"No."

"The problem is you, right? It's always been you. You turned me into this thing that you're afraid of!"

Casey said nothing, yet his eyes acknowledged the correctness of Zeke's point.

"You did this," Zeke accused. "It wasn't Roy or your father."

"Yes."

"You made me into this." Zeke knew that he could have talked about their last time together when he had pounded and taken Casey apart just in time for the party and Winona's visit, how it wasn't really his fault that he hurt Casey because Casey had trained him and drilled him and driven him to it. He could have justified that, but it wasn't really the point. Rubbing his face, he whispered, "I shouldn't have let it start."

"Wh-what?"

"I shouldn't have let it happen, that first night. That's where it all started, didn't it? I shouldn't have let you..."

He was still rubbing his burning eyes, so he didn't hear Casey move. He just heard a door slam. Panicked, he looked and saw that it was the bathroom door, as per usual, and not the door to the room itself as he had feared. Like an idiot, he pursued Casey to that door even though it was way, way too late.

"Casey." He put his hands flat on the bathroom door. "Casey, get out of there."

"No."

"Are you ever going to get past this?" Zeke indulged in a pounded fist on the wall. "It's fucking childish, you know!"

"I'm sleeping in here," said a tremulous, reedy voice.

"The fuck you are."

"I am, and there's nothing you can do about it."

"Oh, yeah? How about I pull a Frank Connor on the door?"

Silence. Then, the most absolutely unexpected thing happened. The lock spun, the handle turned, and Casey was standing there, glaring at him. There was no question that he was furious.

"Let me tell you something, Zeke," he declared. "You did not ‘let me' suck your cock. You wanted it and you didn't want to stop it. You could always stop things if you wanted but you never do. You just want what you want and it's just you being Zeke. You don't want to control yourself, you just like to think you do. You're a coward — "

It was all that Zeke could bear to hear; he lunged and dragged Casey forward by his shirt collar, spun him and threw him down on the bed, landing on him with his full weight.

"You're right," he growled. "I guess I'm not in control," and he mashed his mouth down on Casey's, pouring his tongue down Casey's throat. Casey fought and clawed, trying to get purchase on something but Zeke had the advantage of weight and soon had his hands pinned. Detaching their mouths momentarily, Zeke hissed, "It's good to be right, huh?"

"Zeke," Casey cried. His body was nowhere near quiescent, heaving for breath. Zeke could feel his heart hammering like it was about to go supernova. "Zeke, no..."

"Yes, Zeke...Zeke, Zeke...say my name, baby."

Casey exploded into a new round of struggles. He may not have had the benefit of muscle but he was lithe and determined; holding him was like trying to hold onto a frantic cat. Just when one part was contained another would bust free. "Let me up!" he screeched. "Let me up, let me up, let me up — !"

Zeke's sole thought was containing him. He tried words but Casey was beyond hearing them so he put his hand over Casey's mouth. "All right, stop it — "

Sharp little teeth clamped down on his forefinger. He yelled, tearing his hand away, and formed a fist without thinking, raising it high.

An image of himself captured him — on top of the smaller figure, about to hit him while the two eyes that he adored pleaded blindly, barely even knowing him, just seeing him as a threat, a nightmare to be resisted. He froze, horrified at himself.

Casey took advantage of the opportunity and nailed him squarely in the balls with his knee. Agony exploded throughout his crotch region. He collapsed on his side, helpless to do anything but rock and moan, oblivious to Casey. If Casey had wanted to finish him off with an ax, he would have been helpless to stop it. Casey chose instead to follow up with a trio of blows to Zeke's face. His right eye, his cheek, his throat — imprecise, but it got the job done.

For the next several minutes, Zeke's world was pain — snarling, smarting, all-consuming pain. When his head finally cleared sufficiently that he could see, he realized that Casey was nowhere to be seen. He dragged himself up, fueled by panic. "Casey — ? Case — ?" and located him, tucking into the space between the bed table and the window. He was on the floor, tucked into a ball, shivering, staring. Zoned.

Zeke was going to go to him, but at that moment there was a knock at the door. "Fuck," he whispered, and went to answer it with face and head and balls throbbing.

A man stood outside, oozing officialness. Zeke didn't recognize him but he had no doubt of why he was here.

"Good evening, sir," the man said. His voice was polite but his eyes stony. "I'm sorry, but we've received a complaint from one of our other guests — "

Zeke raised a hand. "Don't tell me. Loud arguing."

"Yes." The man's eyes travelled past Zeke, searching for a partner in crime. "You and — and another man."

"My boyfriend and I were having a fight," Zeke confessed, seeing no reason not to.

"Oh." The man crimsoned on the spot, not liking to hear of homosexuals doing homosexual things in his hotel.

"It's over now, I promise."

"All right — and your — you partner — ?"

"He went for a walk," Zeke said, not budging from the doorway. The lie was unfortunate but he couldn't let the man see Casey now. "I promise...the arguing's over."

"Very well. Um...good night, then."

"Good night."

Zeke closed the door firmly, then hurried over to where Casey had wedged himself. "Shit," he whispered, not knowing how to bring him out of this without touching him. "Shit, shit, shit. Fuck."

In movies, people generally said What have I done? at this moment and Zeke would have mocked them once. Not now. His entire being was that cry; regret was his world, that and the realization that he'd spent the entire day doing the opposite of what he'd been trying to do. Casey was absolutely, perfectly, prophetically correct.

He contained himself long enough to collect a blanket and pillow from the bed. He tucked the blanket gently around Casey, and eased him down onto his side; Casey twitched but didn't otherwise react. Zeke brushed his hair with his fingers, forcing himself to stop at that because it wouldn't help anything.

He put his back up against the bed so he could sit sentinel there. And he wept.

He wept because he'd been such an abusive creep, everything he hated, and because it was all his fault but he'd somehow made it about Casey and maybe set Casey back. He'd definitely hurt him. He'd wanted to hurt him.

He wept because he was in love and he'd fucked it up as badly as any twit with half his intelligence. He wept because this was not merely his first love, but probably his last, and only, and it might never work out now. He knew himself; he knew he wouldn't fall so easily or often. He was too cynical...too romantic. He wanted too much that he couldn't have.

After he had cried so much that his throat was raw and his eyes felt like salt water balloons, he was exhausted. Beyond exhausted; he was empty. He looked back at Casey who still seemed to be out of it.

"C'mon, Case, snap out of it," he whispered. "Please. Come back to me...please."

Don't...don't leave me. Stay with me.

All his anger seemed to have vanished, burst and exploded at the instant he'd seen himself with that raised fist. He was not going to be that. He would do whatever it took to not be that. He was too fucking smart to be that.

Fuck, he was stupid. He'd been so stupid...he wished he could apologize to the world. Sasha, for sure. Probably Jerry. Chloe...well, no, not apologize since he hadn't known her long enough to do something to her but he'd love to talk to her. Too bad he didn't have her number on him or he'd have called her right now.

Okay, so...Stokely, Stan. Apologies. Charley. Apology, yep. Apologies all around. Maybe he would even be able to choke out something for Frank and Allison. And, of course, Casey...

He stared at Casey, squinted at him in the poor light from the single lamp, until he went fuzzy and pixilated. He didn't know how to apologize to someone who had been so dead right while he himself had been dead wrong —

This person before him wasn't perfect maybe, but fuck if he wasn't wonderful and strange and brave and funny. Zeke would do whatever it took to keep him, even if it meant letting him go. If Casey was really his — and he was, no question — he could let him go. That was what Casey had been trying to explain to him. Fuck if his love wasn't fucking brilliant, and amazing, and Zeke would let him spend as much time getting to know himself as he needed, risk that he might never come back, or worse, that he might want to date someone else. So maybe that would kill Zeke, but hey, if dying was what it took he would give Casey what he needed.

Zeke heard sounds of consciousness.

Casey was blinking, shifting, showing evidence of his return to reality, and every movement was somehow precious and adorable to Zeke — and well, he didn't have to say any of this crap out loud. Zeke would keep his worst sappiness to himself.

The terrifying, beautiful eyes were upon Zeke, who couldn't manage more than a whispered, "Hi."

Casey pushed himself up on an elbow, then tried to find the wall, evidently trying to get on his feet for an attempt at flight. He seemed unable to find his balance, however, and subsided, shaking.

Deliberately, Zeke raised both hands, holding them wide open. "No touching."

Casey nodded. Slowly, he draped his arms around his knees, staring at Zeke all the while.

"I know what you're thinking," Zeke said.

Casey shook his head.

"You're thinking how could you have ever felt safe with me. And you're right. I might as well be Roy."

"My fault," Casey croaked.

"No. No, it's not." Zeke took a deep haul on the air, looking up at the ceiling. It was hard to know where to start. "Here's the thing. You were right about me, Case. I have issues. They don't have to do with you, per se, but there's a way that my issues speak to your issues and make everything crazy, and that's not your fault. I'm responsible for my own shit and you're responsible for your shit. We both have a lot of shit."

Casey mustered a wan smile. "Yeah."

"I never in a million years would have thought that I'd act the way I've been acting."

"I — "

"No, shh. You're about to blame yourself and you can forget it. See, I never was in love before and it kind of made a bunch of crap come up that I need to deal with."

"But I hurt you."

"And I hurt you. What if we....could we just kind of...say we've hurt each other and leave it at that...I mean, forget about it...like we're even?"

Casey's eyes were both liquid soft and diamond hard, all at once. "Oh, god. Yes. Please."

"Really? Because I..." Zeke found that he wasn't emptied of tears after all. "I really think I've done some unforgivable things."

Unexpectedly, his head was in Casey's lap; Casey had to accommodate him by quickly putting down his legs, making a place for Zeke who sobbed, "I'm sorry...so sorry...never want to hurt you..."

After a long pause, he felt a hand touch his head. "I know," Casey said softly, brushing his cheek.

"I know we have to be apart for a while or we can't ever be together. I don't care how long it takes but I do love you. I don't think that's going to change." Zeke struggled upright, peering into Casey's eyes. He waited for Casey to give him back something and saw Casey's eyes averted from him. "You love me, right, Casey?"

Casey kept looking away. "I don't — "

"Casey. C'mon."

"What if...I don't know?"

Zeke's stomach quivered, trembled. "That's — that's understandable."

"I don't know if I ever loved you," Casey whispered. "I'm afraid I've just been pretending."

So this was to be Zeke's penance. The pain was unbelievable, like nothing he had known he was capable of, and he couldn't let Casey see it. "I'm going to, um... wash my face." He hurried to get behind the shut door. In the mirror there was a mess of a young man with splotchy skin. He was actually breaking out.

I don't know if I ever loved you.

"Fucking bullshit," he whispered to the mirror. Of course Casey loved him, he had just been hurt so much that he didn't know his own feelings. Casey loved him because Zeke couldn't do this if he didn't. Zeke would just have to wait for Casey to figure it out.

He washed his face and went back out. Casey had moved to the bed; he was sitting on the edge in a pitiful slump.

"Okay," Zeke said.

Casey looked up.

"Even if you never loved me — " which he did not believe — "it doesn't matter. I still love you and when you feel ready I'm going to do my best to make you fall in love with me. But only when you're ready."

"Zeke — "

"I know, I can't control everything. But quite frankly, I still think you love me anyway."

"Zeke — "

"I mean, you're willing to move out of our apartment to save me from you. You can say you're just being noble but I don't buy it." This time, he didn't let Casey get any further than opening his mouth. "By the way...I don't want you to move out, Casey."

"But — "

"I'm going to move out...and I want you to stay with Sasha, okay?"

He waited, but now Casey didn't seem to want to speak.

"Casey...please. It will make me feel much better if I know that Sasha is taking care of you. And you know Sasha will be happier about it too. Fuck, he'll be ecstatic. Just say yes."

"I...yes," Casey mumbled.

"Good. Now I really need..." Zeke looked at the time and found that, miraculously, it was only about ten at night. "I need to sleep. Do you want to stay here or go home?"

"Yes — I mean, home, please."

"All right." Zeke went to collect his coat and his wallet.

"Zeke?"

"What?"

"Can we really be...even?"

"We can if you want to."

"I want to."

"So do I."

"So it's no one's fault?"

"Nope."

"Can — could we — can we — "

"Yeah, Case?"

"Can we still see each other?"

Zeke thought he would weep again, but he'd had enough of weeping for now. "Of course. We can meet for coffee — since you'll be on campus, won't you? And I'll come over to visit and eat Sasha's cooking and watch movies...in fact, I'll have to come visit my TV because I'll probably have to leave it there, it won't fit at Stokely's."

"Does Stokely know you're moving in?"

"Not exactly."

Miraculously, Casey was drifting closer to Zeke and he seemed unafraid, for once. "Did I hurt you?"

Yeah, it had fucking hurt, and it was going to hurt for a while to come, not to mention leaving the evidence on his face there for everyone to see, for everyone to figure out what it meant. "I had it coming," Zeke replied.

Casey was giving him an uncertain, almost kittenish look. "Zeke."

"Yeah?"

"Wanna hug you."

Zeke prepared himself for the touch, opened his arms. He smiled. "C'mere, then."

It was way too brief, and far from satisfying — but he would take what he could get.

 

Zeke is in love with me, for real.

I'm terrible. He's given me so much, he says we can wipe the slate clean and start over and I believe him, I can see when I look at him that he's not angry anymore. Or at least, not as angry as he was. It feels so good and I owe him so much. But what can I offer him? I don't even love him.

He loves me. He likes me, even.

Casey snorted to himself, recalling Sally Field's immortal lines, and rolled over onto his back. He'd wanted to write this stuff last night but he had been so exhausted when they got back. They both had been, each of them staggering to their respective beds, and he had managed to write only Zeke's name before he before he fell asleep, vaguely, securely conscious of Zeke on the other side of the wall.

Yesterday had been a trip to hell; Casey didn't even want to write about it. Trying to remember his resolve as Zeke pushed and prodded and acted so unlike himself — so unlike himself that in the end it was the only thing that could have helped Casey to keep his resolve. Seeing Zeke like that was a constant reminder of what Casey had done to him, and it made it so easy to keep saying no, and when Zeke had touched him and had seemed intent on forcing something to happen, the NO and the terror were unimaginably bright. Perfectly clean, the cleanest thing he had felt in years. No. Don't do this to me. Don't do this to you but especially don't do this to me. His recall of using his knee and then his fists was also perfectly clear, as was his scrambling clear of the bed — and that had been all he knew until he blinked and discovered that he was huddled on the floor. A miserable, swollen-eyed Zeke was gaping at him. A couple of hours later, there were fresh bruises on Zeke's cheek and around his mouth, and while Casey felt some regret that for a while Zeke would have to carry around these mementos of something that both of them really wanted to put behind them, he couldn't entirely regret that he had done it. There had been no question that he would fight the Zeke who had inhabited that room and nearly — no, the alternative was literally unthinkable.

And only the day before yesterday he would have succumbed and let Zeke do what he wanted. The thing was, the day before he hadn't appreciated just how broken Zeke had become. It was a heavy responsibility, the kind that made other heavinesses seem lighter by comparison. Zeke railing at him, even hating him...these were nothing. Hurting Sasha's feelings, sending him away, yeah, that had been really heavy, but it was fixable. With Sasha, everything was fixable.

That had to be Sasha coming in now. Casey hadn't heard the key at the door but he heard it opening, and Sasha's steps, the sound of plastic grocery bags being lowered. Then the closet door opened and shut, like always, and the footsteps moved closer, and closer, until the door creaked open.

"And mama bear said, someone's been sleeping in my bed."

Casey sat up and searched Sasha's face for signs of anger. There were none. Wariness perhaps, and some hurt, but these things didn't stop Sasha from moving closer and sitting on the edge of the bed, tucking one leg under himself.

"How'd it go?" he whispered.

"Okay," Casey whispered back, and knew he was going to cry, which was really ridiculous at this stage.

"Oh..." Sasha brushed a thumb under each of Casey's eyes, smearing at the tears. "Shh, now. You can tell mama bear."

"Zeke's — moving out — " Casey choked. Unable to do anything else and finding that there was nothing more that he wanted, he pressed up to Sasha and felt Sasha's long, elegant hand stroke his hair.

"Oh, poor kitten."

"S-Sasha."

"It's going to be okay."

"He said he wanted me to s-stay with you."

There was a pause, and then Sasha was squeezing Casey so hard he could barely breathe. "Thank god." Suddenly, though, Sasha was moving back. He put a good foot of space between them. "Is this..." He gestured at that space. "...okay?"

"Yes," Casey said. He looked up very slowly, finding it difficult. "I need to explain — "

"There's nothing to explain. Just tell me....you're planning on staying with me then?"

"Do you want me to?'

"Do I...?" Sasha frowned, looked up at the ceiling. His voice sounded thick as he said, "Do I want you to? Why would I not want you to?"

"Because of what I said."

"Oh, that." Sasha shrugged, but he didn't meet Casey's eyes either.

"Sasha."

"Did you really have a bad dream where I was hurting you?"

"Sort of...but it wasn't really you, Sasha. It was just one of those messed up dream things...you know?"

"I figured that, but all the same...you were trying to make a point, right?"

Casey waited for Sasha to finish and eventually realized that Sasha was waiting for him. Sasha wasn't going to let him off the hook this time by saying it for him.

"Yeah, it's..."

"Go on, kitten. I can take it."

"You assumed too much," Casey got out.

"Un-huh."

He felt like he was doing a high wire dance and was about to fall to his destruction. It didn't feel right like explaining your feelings was supposed to be. "You...you think it's your job to protect me from Zeke."

"That's true," Sasha replied.

"But I don't need protecting."

"That's debatable."

"Protecting from Zeke, I mean. He's — he's not Roy, you can't lump them together like that."

"I wasn't, Casey."

"But you were!" Casey's face blazed but he could only push on. "Right then you were. You didn't trust him and you didn't trust me."

"Well, think about it from my point of view, kitten — "

"I know, you watched and did nothing while Roy hurt me and you feel guilty about that but this is different — this — aw, shit, I mean — "

Sasha lifted a hand, not quite putting it up to Casey's mouth. He wagged his finger, gently. "Wait, Casey. Let's back up for a second. I never said that and I need to."

"What?"

"How sorry I am that I never stepped in before."

"I didn't want you to."

"I know, so I didn't, and it was a mistake. I didn't want to make the same mistake again."

"But, Sasha...that doesn't matter. I mean, you couldn't have stopped it."

Sasha shrugged, but his mouth trembled.

"You're still the best friend I've ever had."

Sasha blinked hard. "Really?"

"Of course."

"I've never had a best friend," Sasha mused.

Casey couldn't believe it. It had to be a lie. "No way," he said.

"No, really. Lots of friends but no best friend." Without warning Sasha grabbed Casey and squeezed, this time so hard Casey thought his ribs might crack. It wasn't pleasant, but he endured it for a few seconds.

"Sasha," he protested then.

"Hmm."

"You're hurting me."

"Oh!" Sasha released him at once. "Sorry, kitten."

"‘s okay." Casey felt a silly smile form on his face, until he remembered that there were still considerations and complications, major ones. "But Sasha...what about Jerry?"

"What about him?"

"Maybe..." Casey heard his voice go tiny. "I'm in the way?"

Sasha made a noise that was a cross between a snort and a hah. "No, Casey, you are not in the way."

"But you and Jerry keep having arguments."

"Because he thought...like you...that I've been way too involved in yours and Zeke's life. He was worried about me." Sasha reached out to touch Casey and, reconsidering it, dropped his hand. "Jerry understands how important you are — and he cares about you, too. Also, he thoroughly approved of you kicking me out yesterday. His exact words were ‘Casey rocks.'"

"I didn't kick you out."

"Oh, pish. Of course you did, and you were totally in the right." Sasha patted Casey's cheek quickly and stood up. "Are you getting dressed now, kitten?"

"Have to. Therapy."

"Oh, of course. Is Zeke going with you?"

"Um...don't think so."

"Then I guess I..." Sasha trailed away, then sighed. "You can go yourself, right?"

"Yes."

"You promise you'll show up?"

"Sasha, I want to talk to her. I really want to."

Sasha looked startled. "When did that happen?"

"I'm not sure."

"Okay...well, as long as you stay away from mysterious men on the street."

Casey got out of bed and began hunting for clothing. He said, "Thomas isn't just some mysterious man, Sasha. He's special."

"You're going to make me jealous, kitten. Special, how?"

"He's my friend. He gets things."

"Unlike the rest of us, I suppose."

Casey didn't think perfect honesty was in order. "Oh, no!" he protested. "I didn't mean that. I just meant — "

"It's okay." Sasha discovered Casey's t-shirt from yesterday half under the bed and tossed it to him. "You know, maybe we should see if we can find out which hospital he's in and go visit him."

Casey abandoned everything to stare for the moment. "You would do that?"

"Sure. I mean, the guy only nearly got you put away for grand larceny."

"Oh, it wasn't like that." Casey scooted in and hugged Sasha, then gave him a dose of The Eyes for extra measure. He felt unaccountably upbeat at the idea of Sasha — and maybe Zeke, even — accompanying him to visit Thomas. It would be like all of his sins forgiven at once; it was a fantasy he didn't have the right to expect.

He hurried to the bathroom for a quick clean up, then only had time for a piece of toast that Sasha handed to him on his way out the door, before he was on his way.

For the first few minutes he walked without noticing anything except that the air was very mild and very still, humid, and it occurred to him that it was really quite pleasant. No sun or wind assaulted him. There was just him in the moist air —

Until a woman passed him; their eyes happened to catch and she smiled. His stomach went cold and hot with the burn of sudden fear, and his heart skipped.

It could have been — he should be thinking it was just a random thing, but there was something too knowing about her smile, something entirely too familiar, like she knew him and knew how to get him, and he was entirely alone, entirely surrounded and now his knees felt weak, and, oh god, what if he fainted, he'd be helpless —

Breathe, breathe

He was not going to faint. He couldn't.

In.

Out.

You can breathe, you're doing it right now, Casey. Breathe, dammit!

He was breathing. He was standing, not fainting, but he wanted to cry because he realized that this was never going to just go away, because there would always be other people who might just very well be aliens, because there were aliens out there, and they could come back. They might have never left, even. He was never going to be safe out here. The world — the universe, it just wasn't like that.

You have nothing to fear from us.

That had been Thomas, suggesting that they, the aliens, wouldn't hurt him. And it was stupid. Thomas was a more than slightly insane person. He was probably delusional when he had said that.

But still. Thomas had seemed to know exactly what he was talking about. Suppose that it was true, that Thomas was a messenger for him and it was true. Then that would mean that us, as in we, as in...the aliens or people in general or both...

So, okay. Suppose every last person he saw was an alien — but it didn't matter because they had no intention of harming him? Because they recognized him as one of their own...no, not just one of their own, they recognized her in him. They would never attack their...leader.

He uttered a short laugh. "I am the alien queen," he whispered, squaring his shoulders.

Sasha would love it; too bad Casey couldn't share it with him. He'd think Casey had truly lost it — and just maybe he had but it didn't really matter as long as he did what they all expected, if he got up and ate breakfast, held down a job, went to school. At least he didn't have to obsess about what the aliens wanted to do to him any more, he could settle down and worry about everyone else...and wouldn't Yves be happy with him? Yes, he'd get all sorts of gold stars, he'd be her absolute best patient, top of his class. If only he could tell her.

"Hey."

Casey blinked, his heart pulsing hard. A man who looked to be in his twenties, looking at him. Watching him. "Hi," he replied shyly, notwithstanding that Sasha had told him to stay away from mysterious men.

"You okay?" the man asked.

With that, the man reached out, perhaps to simply brush Casey's arm and express concern but Casey took a step back, noticing as he did that the eyes, the entire face was warm, friendly....interested . This was a come-on and even as Casey's muscles tensed, preparing for flight, his eyes began to drift south a little.

"Hey, what's your name?"

You have nothing to fear from us.

Casey folded his arms across his chest. "I've gotta go."

"You sure?"

There was a twinkle, a come-hither, Casey saw all of it and he felt himself begin to smile in response, his body urging him to it and he blurted quickly, "Yeah," and took a step. And another, heading for his appointment.

Headline: Casey Connor is still a slut. Or not, but something else, something he couldn't seem to stop or hold back. Yeah, they could talk about that. Perhaps she would think he was just acting like a rape victim and perhaps he would go along with it but he would know better just the same.

He knew what he was. He would try to just be that.

Casey Connor, alien queen.

 

"Coffee's on!" shouted Sasha.

Zeke lay still in his bed, more comfortable and rested than he'd been in a while, and he ached. He couldn't imagine not being here and yet that was his lot, for the foreseeable future. With a sigh, he pushed his way out of the bed. He shrugged on a fresh pair of jeans and trudged to the kitchen bare-chested. Sasha greeted him with a mug and a smile.

"I can think of one thing I am looking forward to about not living here," Zeke said, figuring he'd get that bit of information out of the way if Sasha wasn't already aware of it.

Sasha must have known already; he didn't even twitch. "What's that?"

"Sleeping in whenever I want, as late as I want."

"It's almost ten," Sasha protested.

"It's still my vacation."

Sasha shrugged, pouring himself coffee and going to sit. "So no beating around the bush, huh?"

"No." Zeke tasted the coffee, which was doctored just as he liked it. He was going to miss that. He sat down and held up his mug in a salute to Sasha.

"Casey was a little nervous that you'd wake up all recharged and ready to spend another day trying to change his mind."

Zeke fingered his bruised cheekbone that had now achieved the full apogee of soreness. It had to be visible, too. "He told you what happened, I suppose."

"Not really." Sasha sipped his own coffee and didn't quite look at Zeke. "He just said you tried to change his mind...until you realized it was hurting you both." There was a slight glitter of knowing anger in Sasha's eyes. "Believe me, I don't want to know any more than that."

"Good."

"I think you're very wise, by the way."

"Why, because I figured out that I was just going to make him hate me or because I knew you were probably going to tie him down to keep him here?"

"Both." Sasha put his hands flat on the table, making a serious face. "Thank you for that."

"No problem." They each contemplated their coffee for a moment, not entirely comfortable with each other. Zeke didn't know what it was going to take to change that. "So," he said. "You and Casey made up?"

"It wasn't like that. I just had to get over myself, and he explained some things and it's all good now. Have you actually asked Stokely if you could move in?"

"Kind of."

"Kind of," Sasha echoed.

"Well, she actually suggested it yesterday."

"Oh. That's...interesting."

"You don't need to tell me. I was an idiot."

Sasha smiled fondly. "You have a very strong will, I'll give you that."

It was one of the nicer ways that Zeke had ever been told he was a stubborn twit, and Zeke was about to say so when there was a ring at their door and, with a slight, puzzling frown, Sasha got up to answer. "Delivery for Zeke Tyler," Zeke heard.

"What's this?" Sasha said.

Zeke thought he had better take an interest; with a slight, sinking feeling he trailed after Sasha to the doorway, where a man in a UPS uniform was standing, holding a very large, rectangular, flat package wrapped in corrugated cardboard. "Who's it from?" Zeke asked, with a good idea of the answer.

The man checked the bill of lading. "Windle Enterprises."

"Son of a bitch," Sasha whispered. "I can't believe this. You can just take whatever it is and put it — "

"No," Zeke said loudly. "Where do I sign?"

"Zeke," Sasha protested.

Zeke ignored him, signing where he was directed to. "Thank you. I'll take that now." He closed the door on the delivery man, shuffling the package in and wondering if there wasn't some deity he should thank that Casey wasn't here right now.

"You know he's just fucking with us again," Sasha remarked.

"I know." Zeke pulled the parcel over to the table and laid it flat. It was securely enclosed by the cardboard, and yards of packing tape; Zeke fetched a knife to get it open and slice open the packaging, while Sasha watched, and Zeke was not oblivious to the heat of anger emanating from his tall friend.

As the contents were revealed — Casey's exquisitely tortured expression in black and white, larger than life — Sasha gasped. Zeke, for his part, wasn't surprised.

"I know this photograph!" Sasha exclaimed. "Roy showed the original to me once. I didn't know he'd..." He trailed off, staring at Casey in his moment of extremity. "There's an envelope taped to it."

The envelope read only "Zeke." He took it, opened it. It was small, white notecard, undecorated. Within, in simple black ink, it read in handwriting that shouldn't have been but was familiar: He's all yours.

"Why would he send this to you?" Sasha wondered, sounding bewildered.

"To fuck me over," Zeke answered absently, tapping the card. His mind should be racing right now, trying to conjure an explanation, but he had nothing.

"But why — and how did he know where we live?"

"I'm sure he could find out if he wanted," Zeke stalled.

"But...he addressed it to you...is there something I'm missing here, Zeke?"

Zeke considered the man at his side, once a confident, more lately a rival and an obstacle. "Can I trust you?" he returned.

"Of course you can."

"No, I mean really trust you."

"Wha — what do you mean? You know you can."

"I don't know that," Zeke said bluntly. "I mean...if I were to tell you a secret, would you swear absolutely to never, ever tell Casey or otherwise let him know that there's something to know about?"

Sasha intuited Zeke's meaning and wisely didn't answer right away. He looked at the photograph, then at Zeke and sighed, "Yes."

"If you told Casey, not only would our friendship be over but I would have to kill you."

"I swear I won't tell him."

"Not even by accident?"

"Zeke!" Sasha burst out in outrage — and then calmed. "Okay, maybe I deserve that. You can trust me though. You can kill me if I let it slip." He shrugged. "I assume this is nothing that Casey needs to know."

"Fucking forget it," Zeke snapped.

"Zeke — okay, okay!"

"No, he doesn't need to know this, just like I didn't need to know about Thomas. Okay?"

Sasha stared at him and he stared back, and Zeke sensed a kind of understanding forming between them. "Okay," Sasha said, at last. "Now spill!"

"I visited Roy."

"What?!" Sasha screeched. "What?"

"Hey — "

"You what — !"

"Sasha!" Having a paranoid moment, Zeke checked the clock. It was still too early for Casey to be home from therapy, but he felt anxiety all the same. "You know, I need to hide this first."

"No fucking shit!"

"Where can I..." Zeke mused and Sasha spat out the answer at the same time as he did: "The storage room."

"Casey never goes in there," Sasha confirmed. "It's all your stuff anyway."

"And when I have the chance, I'll move it to Stokely's."

"And put it where?"

"I don't know."

"You can't guarantee that Casey will never be there to see it. You should get rid of it, Zeke."

"Look at it, Sasha. You know I can't do that."

Sasha bit his lip. "No," he admitted. "All right, go and stash it and then get your ass back up here."

Zeke did so, pulling his jacket on over his bare chest before he went out, carrying Casey's framed image down the stairs and sliding it behind a stack of boxes for extra security before heading back up to Sasha. The latter was standing at the door waiting with arms folded. "So," he said without preamble. "You visited Roy."

"Yes," Zeke answered, not bothering to remove his jacket.

"When?"

Zeke wandered back to the table, and his coffee. "After leaving Casey at the airport in Cincinnati."

"Of course," Sasha breathed, following him. "Did you even go to the wedding?"

"Yeah, I just arrived a little later than I had been planning."

"So this was..."

"Last Thursday." Just over a week, and it seemed such a long time ago already. "I went downtown and looked up his offices. I called him and said I was a journalism student looking to interview him about his art for a project."

"Oh, that's good."

"I guess...he called me back the same day."

"He's always been terribly vain about being an artist."

"Did you know he came out?"

"What?" Sasha looked stunned. "I don't believe it."

"It's true. You can read about it on-line if you want."

"Fuck. Casey really doesn't need to know that."

"That's what I figured. So we met at this bar and I pretended to interview him." Zeke found that he needed something to lean on and went into the kitchen. "I don't know what I thought I would accomplish. I just wanted to figure everything out, you know?"

"Yeah," Sasha replied. "I know."

"And then he asked me to go back to his apartment."

"Why would he — oh, you've gotta be fucking kidding me. He picked you up?"

"Why?" Zeke protested, half enjoying himself. "Is it that improbable?"

"Oh...no, of course not, but you really aren't his type."

"That's what he said."

"So — " Sasha bit his lip, eyeing Zeke. "What was your impression of him?"

Zeke shrugged. "He was...more charming than I expected."

"Yeah," sighed Sasha.

"At first," Zeke added.

"And so then what?"

"I went to his apartment."

"You terrify me, you know that? What did you think you were going to do?"

"I don't know. Confront him... maybe kick the shit out of him."

"I've had that fantasy."

Zeke raised his brows at that. "Sure, whatever. Anyway, he came onto me and I kind of stalled for time and that was when I came across the photograph on the wall. It made me so mad, I couldn't keep pretending. I told him who I was."

"What did he do? Oh, I know...acted all cool like he didn't give a damn, right?"

"Basically."

"And...?"

"And?"

"What happened then?"

"I tried to get him to confess to what he'd done to Casey and when it wasn't what I wanted to hear I got Janice into it."

"How?"

"I said I would see to it that Casey made a complaint to the police. I would have too."

"Oh, fuck, Zeke."

"We met on Friday afternoon and I made them tell me everything and write it down for me. I had this stupid idea that I was going to bring it home and force Casey to read it with me, to make him admit the truth...but then the night of my dad's wedding I got drunk and I realized I would just have destroyed Casey. So I burned it."

"Burned...?"

"I burned Roy's confession."

That was it. Zeke noticed that Sasha was staring at him, his mouth hanging open. He seemed to be rather speechless.

"Sasha?"

"I...need to sit."

"Okay." He accompanied Sasha into the living room, watched him sink into his chair. He sat down also, reminding himself to keep an eye on the clock. He couldn't risk allowing Casey to hear any of this. Unprompted, he said, "I was out of my mind, Sasha. I've been out of my mind for a long time. I kept telling myself it was justice I wanted but...I really just wanted revenge. Mostly on Casey, because I thought he'd fucked Thomas. I wanted to hurt them — Roy and Janice and Casey too, because I felt like..."

Sasha had lifted his head. He sounded sympathetic as he said, "You felt like they'd ruined everything for you."

"Okay, I have some control issues. I admit it. The thought of anyone else touching him..."

Sasha mumbled something.

"Say again?"

"What did...the...the...what did they confess to?"

"That was the worst of it, Sasha. I'll never really know what happened. They definitely had sex. Janice says Casey didn't want it, Roy denies it. He admits to poor judgement but insists that Casey did want it. Janice says she stopped it and Roy says she was into it. I figure it doesn't fucking matter. It happened and it was bad and Casey's dealing with it, right?"

Sasha rested his face in his hand.

"Sasha?"

Sasha moved but didn't look up.

"Are you crying?"

With a wet sniff, Sasha raised his head. "No."

"Looks like it to me. What is it?"

"Zeke..."

"Yeah..."

"Casey still needs you, you know."

Zeke shook his head. "No, he doesn't. What he needs right now is for me to get out of the way."

Sasha smiled tremulously. "Poor Zekie."

"Not," Zeke shot back. "Don't you even..."

"Okay. I'm sorry." Sasha wiped his eyes. "Is it possible that it's finally over?"

"What do you mean?"

"He sent you that picture, right? And that message...maybe you got to him."

"I doubt it."

"But Zeke...he occasionally has these glimmers of humanity. I've been afraid all this time that he would rear his head and now it seems like he's ready to let Casey go."

"You know as well as I do that Roy can't be trusted."

"True." Sasha rubbed his eye. "But I still have this hopeful feeling."

"You go right ahead with that. I'm going to stay suspicious."

"Ah, sweetheart." Sasha was smiling fondly. "I love you."

"Shut up."

"I do. And I think it's going to be okay."

"Maybe."

"Maybe nothing. That's what I have to think. We can't have survived this past month for nothing, you know that."

"I know nothing of the kind," Zeke replied, getting up to find himself something to eat.

What he knew was that he had to find some way to be without Casey. There was that picture under the stairs; somehow he would have to make do with it for now. It was stunning, even if it was a pale imitation of the real thing. When someone was that wonderful and strange and oddly perfect, you had to give them whatever they needed to survive among the normals. You couldn't just give up, though, and Zeke had no intention of doing that.

Well, he'd just let things get normal for a while. Maybe see a therapist if it could actually fucking help, hang out with Stokely, do school. Visit Casey of course, keep an eye on him until they were ready to start dating. Bring him presents, coddle him and let him know Zeke was out here waiting. He wouldn't make Casey fall in love with him, it wasn't up to him. Lots of things weren't up to him, but he could certainly do his best and his best was pretty fucking good. Yeah, he knew stuff, because he was smart and he knew this: If Casey didn't realize that he loved Zeke Tyler, he would someday. Eventually. Zeke would see to it.


End file.
